The 

Intellectuals 

MARY DIXON THAYER 



DORRANCE 




Class IPSiL.5Laa 
BookJlll^JL^ 

CopyiightN"__La^g.J 



COP»UGHT D£POSm 



The 
INTELLECTUALS 




Now where do you live?" asked Mrs. Rushabout. 
"Does Mother tuke in washing?" page 183 



The 

INTELLECTUALS 

A Friendly Satire 

By MARY DIXON THAYER 

Author of 

Treasures 

Advice to Will-Be Debutantes, etc. 

ILLUSTRATIONS BY STUART HAY 




PHILADELPHIA 
DORRANCE AND COMPANY Inc. 



COPYRIGHT 1921 BY 
DORRANCE AND COMPANY, Inc. 



All rights reserved 



THE • PLIMPTON • PRESS • NORWOOD ■ MASS ■ IT S A 



FEB 19 1921 
g)CI.A605809 



) 



2Detii(ateti 



TO 

MY MOTHER AND MY FATHER 

WHO HAVE LONG ENDURED THE WILD 

INCOHERENT INCANTATIONS OF AN INTELLECTUAL CHILD 



SOLILOQUY 

I ENTIRELY realize that in writing 
a treatise upon such serious-minded 
persons as Intellectuals I am wilfully 
laying myself open to censure. How- 
ever, come what may, I cannot resist the 
temptation — and perhaps my imperti- 
nences may be somewhat pardoned if my 
readers remember that I have been for 
some time affiliated with the Organization 
and that, therefore, I am laughing no 
more at others than at myself when I up- 
hold for merriment our peculiar charac- 
teristics. 

It must be distinctly understood that 
Intellectuals as referred to in this volume 
are of a unique class — that is to say, of 
the self-nominated, self-seconded, and 
self-elected class, and that they are there- 

[ 9] 



SOLILOQUY 



fore in no way associated with those pit- 
iable, real Intellectualists who, conscious 
of the fact of actual intellectualism, eke 
out a dreadful existence, alone, unknown, 
unapplauded and uninitiated into the 
strange and poignant joys of those who 
are fatuously convinced of their own 
genius. 

It is not of the impotent Intellectualist, 
then, of that obscured, impossible individ- 
ual who invariably dies before he is dis- 
covered that I treat; rather of the 
legions of gratingly self-asserting, self- 
appraising, self-successful Intellectuals 
who tread during life the heady trail of 
Fame and Plenty and sink, at death, into 
a pit of suitable oblivion ... of these is 
our tale. 



[10] 



PROLOGUE 

Sages warn us there must be 
Intellectuals bold and free. 
Wild and weird through all time 
Found in every age and clime. 

We have but to look about — 
Intellectuals rave and shout. 
Prance and mimic and create. 
Quote and argue and abate 

Not their frenzy for a day. 
(Oh, how do they get that way?) 
Then what use, you ask, to dwell 
On the Intellectual? 

Those who know them, who have met 
The poor creatures, woidd forget 
(If they could) that tragic jest — 
Intellectuals at their best. 

[ 11 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

But you cannot thus ignore 
Those who stand at every door 
Of Art and Knowledge, peering in. 
Piping forth in accents thin 

All they do not know, and who 
Set their wily traps for you. 
Dull your reason, sift your brain. 
And despatch you off again! 

So the purpose of this book 
Is to make you pause, and look. 
Watch their antics — if you smile 
Then my writing is worth while. 



[ 12 ] 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Soliloquy 9 

Prologue 11 

The Intellectuals 

I. Adopt a New Member .... 19 

II. Start a "Big Movement" . . 37 

III. Occasionally Agree 53 

rV. Discuss Life 71 

V. Value Values 89 

VI. Create With Frenzy 103 

VII. Are Sometimes Young .... 123 

VIII. Absorb Courses ....... 141 

IX. Stalk Celebrities 155 

X. Visit Widows and Orphans . 175 

Epilogue 191 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

"Now where do you live?" asked Mrs. 
Rushabout, "Does Mother take in 
washing?" Frontispiece 

"Am I alive? or am I dead?" demanded 

Miss Snobber 81 



I 

The Intellectuals 
ADOPT A NEW MEMBER 



[ 17 ] 



The Intellectuals 
I 

The Intellectuals 
ADOPT A NEW MEMBER 

I HAD always longed to be an Intel- 
lectual. Even as a child I fre- 
quently woke suddenly from a 
sound sleep, leaped from my bed, turned 
on the electric light, and strode to the 
mirror — where I remained gazing fasci- 
nated upon myself. My wonderful dark 
eyes held unplumbed depths of power. 
I knew myself a genius. Yet I worried ; I 
worried unceasingly. Would other people 
know it? Ah, even in youth I realized the 

[ 19] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

futility of possessing talent did the world 
not perceive it also! Often, when creating, 
I would pause, trembling with ecstasy, 
and reread the lines that I had penned. I 
knew them to be immortal. 

Yet no one else did. Oh, the agony of 
those moments! The torture I suffered! 
To possess the divine spark unacknowl- 
edged by the world — this — this is hor- 
rible in excess! (Many cannot under- 
stand. ) 

As I grew up the consciousness of my 
superhuman genius increased — became 
astoundingly, hauntingly vivid. My mind 
was a ferment of visions which I caught 
with the point of my pen and translated 
profusely upon paper. But no one real- 
ized their beauty. Editors refused to read, 
openly scoffed. Never for an instant, 
however, did I doubt myself. I pitied 
their blindness. I remembered that true 
genius was seldom appreciated, and that 

[ 20 ] 



ADOPT A NEW MEMBER 

mine, being true, was infinitely elevated. 
I waited. I knew they would find me out. 
They did. 

It was my Sonnet to the Moon that first 
attracted attention. This work as you 
know is indeed supremely beautiful, but 
it does not compare with many of my 
other poems. If I may go further I would 
even hint that this sonnet, being not quite 
as sublime as mj^ other creations, was more 
intelligible to the multitude and to the 
cramped, if necessary, minds of the pub- 
lishers. 

Yet I do not believe that even now, with 
its beauty admitted, any of my readers 
have perceived, in it, its intrinsic meaning. 
I have been accused of vagueness. Such 
accusation would proceed only from the 
uneducated since genius, in its very es- 
sence, is necessarily vague; its possessor 
is obliged to clothe the spiritual brilliancy 
of his images with, as it were, a veil of 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

flesh, lest his readers' eyes be wholly- 
dazzled. Petrarch, Dante, Milton, Brown- 
ing and I have been blamed for erring in 
this particular. Will critics never admit 
that the fault, if fault there is, rests within 
the narrow confines of their own percep- 
tions and not, as they stupidly maintain, 
in the mentality of the writer? 

I met Mrs. Rushabout at the Club the 
day after my sonnet had appeared in one 
of the leading magazines. She made a bee- 
line for me. "My dear, dear Miss Would- 
be, . . .1 had no idea that you wrote — 
why, the whole city is discussing your 
poem ! It is lovely ! simply lovely ! and so 
— so—" 

"Intellectual?" I ventured hopefully. 

"Exactly — intellectual — that's it; 
full of the most sublime appreciation of 
beauty! Shelley and Keats, Miss Would- 
be, Shelley and Keats, exactly. You are 
the reincarnation of both! Keep it up!'* 

[ 22] 



ADOPT A NEW MEMBER 

And she dashed for the dining room (hav- 
ing perceived out of the corner of her eye 
that there was chicken salad for 
luncheon). 

I wondered what, precisely, I was to 
"keep up." Probably sonnets to the 
Moon. I felt perfectly capable of keeping 
up sonnets to the Moon indefinitely, but 
it might be more amusing, I had thought, 
to try the Sun next time, or perhaps even 
a star. If they would have the Moon, how- 
ever, then Moon it would be. 

I was accosted at the door by Miss 
Snobber, Intellectualissimo Altissimus, 
President of the Drowning Society for the 
Muscular Development of Poetry, Chair- 
man of the Committee for the Investiga- 
tion of the Religious Conflictions of Wil- 
liam Shakespeare, authority on Plato, 
Cup-o, and American Blue Laws. She 
bumped into me as I was about to emerge 
into the street. She had never conde- 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

scended to bump into me before. I was 
stunned with the bump and with the real- 
ization that it had been a bump from Miss 
Snobber. 

"My dear child," said Miss Snobber, "I 
was so pleased with your poem — so very 
pleased! May I ask if you are of the 
ar ti stic temp er ament ? ' ' 

"Oh, very," I agreed. "In fact it might 
almost be said. Miss Snobber, that the 
artistic temperament is of me.'* 

Miss Snobber pondered this remark, ob- 
structing the hallway quite unconsciously 
meanwhile as she stood lost in meditation. 
Then she shrieked suddenly with merri- 
ment and tapped me coquettishly on the 
shoulder with a long, aristocratic finger. 

"Quite so — quite so — oh, very witty, 

really extremely witty ! Now what" — she 

added, bending toward me in an attitude 

copied from a masterpiece of Sir Joshua 

Reynolds — "what, exactly, was your 
— 



ADOPT A NEW MEMBER 

inner, mystic, subconscious, reflex inhibi- 
tion in this poem?" 

I was terrified — but I said, "The 
Moon." Miss Snobber understood. She 
gazed out of the door dreamily and 
nodded. 

"The Moon — of course — those waves 
of diaphanous radiance, proceeding upon 
the ether, entered the precincts of your 
soul and unloosed the meshes of genius. 
You must join our Club," she ended 
abruptly. 

"And you can't say no. I realize you 
are dreadfully busy, but really you can- 
not afford to refuse this invitation. It is 
not given to everyone, you understand." 

I had no idea of refusing, although I 
accepted with a show of reluctance. 

"What kind of club is it?" I asked 
when everything had been arranged. 

"It is a Club formed for the discussion 
of the New Art," said Miss Snobber flatly, 

[171 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

and eyed me warily. "We study the Rus- 
sians in literature, the Vers Librests in 
poetry, the Futurists in painting, the 
Modernists in religion. We are children," 
she added modestly, "of the New Error."* 

"Ah yes," I said, and smiled know- 
ingly. But I felt suddenly faint. I 
knew that I did not know any more about 
the New Error than I knew about the old, 
and I knew that I knew nothing whatever 
about the old. I dreaded my utter hu- 
miliation before these enlightened chil- 
dren of the Dawn. 

"We meet," said Miss Snobber, "every 
Friday afternoon in my apartments. You 
must realize. Miss Wouldbe, that it is a 
purely mental — a purely intellectual as- 
sociation. Birth counts for nothing. 
Birth, after all, is but the sordid arrange- 
ment of matter. And matter is nothing. 
Soul is all. Now tell me confidentially — 

* Sometimes spelt "Era." 
-— 



ADOPT A NEW MEMBER 

do you personally believe that souls are in 
reality one and that the individual soul is 
but a disunited fragment of the entire 
mental energy of the world?" 

"I do indeed, Miss Snobber," I said, 
"and what is more I believe that Missing- 
link, in his Life of the Bat, has given a 
very marked impulse to the Irish Ques- 
tion!" 

Miss Snobber gazed at me admiringly. 
"Really? You must explain this theory 
at the meeting. The name of our Club, 
by the way, is the 'Debate and Inquiry.' 
We inquire into everything, Miss Would- 
be. We do not believe in false shame. 
In fact we believe that shame is false. 
We begin by inquiring into the workings 
of human nature and proceed into inquiry 
of the workings of the human soul. A 
flower is as beautiful to us, Miss Wouldbe, 
as the Grand Canyon of the Colorado or 

the Falls of Niagara. We pierce the out- 
__ 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

ward appearances of things and plumb 
the depths of being in search of the First 
Cause of the Ultimate End. Now a 
flower, as you will readily agree, possesses 
a first cause and an ultimate end no less 
interesting than the Grand Canyon or the 
Falls of Niagara. This, however, is only 
evident to the intellectual mind. Who 
was it, Miss Wouldbe, who said 'To me 
the smallest flower that blows — grows — 
brings thoughts too deep for tears?' 
Well, no matter. That is the idea at any 
rate." 

"Was it Wordsworth?" I ventured. 

"I think not," said Miss Snobber. "I 
think it was Robert Fulton or Patrick 
Henry — but it does not matter. The 
idea alone matters. It is ideas, Miss 
Wouldbe, is it not, which raise us from 
round to round of the ladder leading up to 
Heaven?" 

"Ah, but Miss Snobber!" I exclaimed, 

[ 28 ] 



ADOPT A NEW MEMBER 

"You do not — you cannot believe — in 
Heaven?" 

Miss Snobber looked pained and con- 
fused. 

"Certainly not, Miss Wouldbe — a 
mere figure of speech — a metaphor — 
but I believe in the Destiny of the Human 
Race — if you know what I mean." 

I didn't. 

"At the gatherings of the Inquiry 
Club," continued Miss Snobber, "you will 
meet only interesting people — people 
who are alive — people who think, whose 
minds are open to every impression. You 
will be tremendously stimulated. After 
all, Miss Wouldbe, I am not sure but that 
that is not what constitutes happiness — 
stimulation — mental stimulation. "What- 
ever startles us with clearer vision, what- 
ever stirs the dormant fibres of our being 
— is not this, and this alone, what we seek 
in pursuing happiness?" 

r29i 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

"I have not quite made up my mind 
on the subject," I said. "But I am at 
present preparing a treatise for the Pa- 
cific Monthly in which I discuss the 'Ele- 
ments of Happiness Considered From the 
Viewpoint of a Tree Toad and an Abo- 
riginal Man.' The very question that you 
have raised, Miss Snobber, I am about to 
analyze in this comprehensive study." 

"Ah, Miss Wouldbe, how delightful — 
how clever ! A tree toad and an aboriginal 
man! Fascinating! Entrancing! You 
must let me know when it comes out." 

I supposed then that she meant the 
article, but on later consideration was 
haunted by a terrible thought. Could she 
have meant the tree toad? I do not know 
when tree toads come out — I must look 
this up in the Encyclopedia. 

Miss Snobber had remained talking 
with me so long that Mrs. Rushabout ate 
up all the chicken salad before she, Miss 

[ 30 ] 



ADOPT A NEW MEMBER 

Snobber, could get any, and appeared con- 
tentedly in the hall just as Miss Snobber 
was bidding me farewell. 

"Friday afternoon," said Miss Snobber, 
"don't forget — three o'clock — and re- 
member you are to speak upon the 'Life 
of the Bat and the Irish Question.' " 

She disappeared. 

Mrs. Rushabout approached, stiffly. 

"I presume," she remarked, "that you 
have been invited to join the Debate and 
Inquiry Club." 

"I have, Mrs. Rushabout," I admitted. 

"Stuff and nonsense!" said Mrs. Rush- 
about forcefully. "It is stuff and non- 
sense! I have never been invited to join." 

"A pity," I murmured, "a great pity 
that such an intellect as yours — " 

"Exactly, Miss Wouldbe. But these 
foolish women do not perceive my great 
qualities. I am a born leader, Miss 
Wouldbe, a born organizer, a born de- 

[31 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

bater, a born social service worker, but be- 
cause my abilities do not tend toward sen- 
timental tommy rot poetry, or meaning- 
less dabbling in paint, I am ignored — 
utterly ignored — yet I am a born . . . " 

I saw perfectly that Mrs. Rushabout 
had been born, and also I saw that I had 
borne a good deal from Mrs. Rushabout. 

I drew myself up. "I trust that you do 
not mean to imply that my Sonnet to the 
Moon is sentimental tommyrot poetry — 
or that — " 

"Oh, certainly not — Miss Wouldbe — 
how could you suspect me of such igno- 
rance ? Your Sonnet is divine — simply 
divine. An idiot could see that!" 

An idiot had, I mused. 

"Divine — " repeated Mrs. Rushabout, 
softly, and began to quote: 



[ 82 ] 



ADOPT A NEW MEMBER 

" 'See! Yonder slides the Moon 
From the black arms of night — 
Eternal youth — and radiant^ 
Clothed in purest white. 
Her face averted that the world 
May never — can never — ' 

"Dear me! I have forgotten, and I 
spent an hour memorizing it this morning ! 
How unf ortmiate !" 

The dear woman seemed dreadfully 
upset. But suddenly her face brightened. 

"You must come and hear me speak be- 
fore the Committee for the Prevention of 
Cruelty to Bugs!" she exclaimed. 

"When will you speak?" 

"This afternoon — at four. Really, you 
must promise you'll come. It will be most 
interesting — most intellectual." 

I could not afford to miss anything in- 
tellectual. 

"And perhaps," whispered Mrs. Rush- 

[ 33] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

about, "perhaps — when you've heard me 
speak — you'll propose me as a Member 
of the Debate and Inquiry Club. Of 
course it is stuff and nonsense, that Club 
— purely stuff and nonsense — but they 
are making a mistake not to have me." 
And she hustled away. 

Thus it was that I became an Intellec- 
tual and an Intellectual once "be- 
came" can never be anything else. 
Though in future I should speak with the ' 
tongues of parrots and of asses, though 
I should utter the most absurd and incon- 
sequent nonsense, nevertheless I shall 
be heeded, I know, with awe and rever- 
ence, shall be pursued by Publishers and 
Editors, and my slightest actions will as- 
sume, in the vulgar eye, an importance 
out of proportion with their character. 

My hopes are realized. ''Intellectual 
I am, Intellectual I remain." Cogito, ergo 
sum! 

[ 34 ] 



II 

The Intellectuals 
START A "BIG MOVEMENT" 



[ 35 ] 



II 

The Intellectuals 
START A "BIG MOVEMENT" 

WHEN I arrived at the Meet- 
ing of the "Committee for the 
Prevention of Cruelty to 
Bugs," Mrs. Rushabout had just taken 
her place upon the elevated speakers' plat- 
form at one end of the room. 

The large hall was crowded. I noticed 
Miss Snobber on the front row seated be- 
side Mr. Tearitdown and Mr. Patchitup. 
These two gentlemen, well known in po- 
litical circles, were intimate friends al- 
though their efforts toward political re- 
form were exerted in opposite directions. 

Mr. Tearitdown was a most pessimistic 
optimist. Everything was wrong, he de- 

[ 37 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

clared, but everj^thing could be made 
right. Eliminate everything! he shouted 
continually in letters to the Evening 
Papers; raze the old, inadequate, incom- 
petent institutions to the ground ! build up 
new ones! The Constitution of the Gov- 
ernment should be wholly altered. Life 
was change. The Constitution was static. 
Therefore the Constitution was not life; 
therefore it could not adapt itself to life; 
therefore it should be torn up, rewritten. 
With the Constitution, also, should be dis- 
carded all static laws, ideas and preju- 
dices, such as Marriage, Religion, and a 
hundred others. When this conscientious 
housecleaning was once accomplished then 
he, Mr. Tearitdown, might consent to 
formulate new, vital and progressive 
theories from the energizing essence of 
which would spring, in no time, a magnifi- 
cent and unadulterated civilization. 

But first, maintained Mr. Tearitdown, 
— 



START A "BIG MOVEMENT" 

everything must be abolished; until that 
coveted day of Iconoclasm rampant, how- 
ever, Mr. Tearitdown perforce occupied 
himself with criticising, ridiculing and dis- 
agreeing. He criticised and ridiculed 
everything from Santa Claus' beard to 
Mr. Patchitup's necktie. And he dis- 
agreed with every human being upon 
every known subject, and was never once 
heard to agree that he disagreed. 

Mr. Patchitup, on the other hand, was 
an optimistic pessimist. The world could 
never be made perfect, he declared. He 
was forever reminding his associates that 
human nature was essentially corrupt and 
a prey to grievous and unconquerable pas- 
sions. War, he repeated, had always ex- 
isted. It would, therefore, continue to 
exist until the end of time. Nothing could 
prevent war. War was bound to occur 
just as surely as the evil in man was bound 

never to be eliminated. The best that 
_ 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

could be done, he thought, was to prevent 
men from endeavoring to prevent war. 

"Let us," said Mr. Patchitup, "look 
upon war as an unfortunate but neces- 
sary disease, a disease that can only be 
counteracted temporarily, and by forceful 
surgery. By all means let us have a Large 
Standing Army." 

Also, thought Mr. Patchitup, the Con- 
stitution of the United States, Religion, 
and the most general idea of Matrimony 
were well enough. Too strenuous altera- 
tion, he declared, would lead only to un- 
rest and revolution. But some alterations 
there should be — and these alterations, 
according to Mr. Patchitup 's opinion, 
should be accomplished tactfully, unob- 
trusively, slowly. Thus, if the Constitu- 
tion of the States proved, in part, discon- 
certing, why by all means change that 
part — but do not make a brawl about it. 
If Religion prove, to the individual, a de- 

[ 40 ] 



START A "BIG MOVEMENT" 

terrent to particular ambitions, why by 
all means disregard Religion, but do not 
openly contradict it. If the Christian law 
of Marriage prove disagreeably irksome, 
well — do not fling the whole conception 
into the dust heap — get a divorce ! 

Luckily Miss Snobber sat between Mr. 
Tearitdown and Mr. Patchitup; they 
waited, with the rest of the audience, for 
Mrs. Rushabout to speak. 

Mrs. Rushabout, when she stood up, 
was for a moment a trifle embarrassed. 
The sudden silence seemed to deprive her 
of speech. Then, overcoming her emotion, 
she began: 

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we are as- 
sembled here for an extraordinary, an un- 
precedented purpose — the formation of 
a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to 
Bugs. It seems to me that this purpose, 
which draws us with one accord together, 
is one typifying more than anything else 

[ 41 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

the idealism and charity with which we 
have emerged from the terrible conflict of 
brute force known as War. ..." 

Here she paused and the audience ap- 
plauded. 

"There have been Societies," went on 
Mrs. Rushabout, "for the Prevention of 
Cruelty to Children, and Societies for the 
Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, but 
never, to my knowledge, has there been a 
Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to 
Bugs. (Applause) 

"Have the sensibilities of man been ut- 
terly dulled until this moment? Has the 
gigantic intellect of man not grasped, un- 
til now, the fact that suffering is not de- 
pendent upon size — that a flea can suffer 
as poignantly as a cow? that a mosquito's 
nervous system responds as quickly and 
unerringly to pain as the nervous system 
of a zebra or a bull pup ? Ah, dear people, 
I fear that this is so. I fear that, incon- 

[ 42 ] 



START A ''BIG MOVEMENT" 

ceivable as it is, we have not, until this 
moment, reahzed the acute, the horrible, 
the unnecessary agony that is inflicted 
daily upon bugs! (Sobs and gasps from 
the audience) 

"Bugs!" exclaimed Mrs. Rushabout 
tragically. "Bugs! Is there any word in 
our beautiful English language that has 
been as misrepresented, scorned, and ridi- 
culed? The word 'bug' has come to 
mean, for many, the very essence of dis- 
comfort. It has even been applied, I be- 
lieve, to men and women deprived of the 
use of reason! And yet this word 'bug,' 
if rightly understood, is supremely beauti- 
ful. All things, dear people, are beauti- 
ful, if rightly understood." 

Mrs. Rushabout here paused for the 
second time and I saw that her eyes were 
shining with tears. Perhaps she was 
thinking of the Ephydra. 

"Picture to yourself!" she cried feel- 

[43 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

ingly, "the utter cruelty with which thou- 
sands of these tiny creatures, known as 
bugs, are daily exterminated! No one 
protects them. No one sympathizes with 
them. No one even troubles to ascertain 
the correct name of the particular species 
he is about, very probably, to destroy for 
all eternity! The simple, the sweet, the 
gentle epithet of 'bug' is enough to in- 
cense these human fiends to kill — and 
they kill ruthlessly, senselessly, furiously. 
Were it not for the efforts of this 
Society in future I might almost dare to 
predict that soon there would be no bugs 
at all! 

"No more bugs ! Imagine, dear people, 
if you can, a world without bugs! What 
a dull, what a dreary, what a deplorable 
spectacle ! And yet the government sanc- 
tions the use and concoction of innumer- 
able insect powders, pastes, and liquids 
designed with the deliberate intention of 

[ 44 ] 



START A "BIG MOVEMENT" 

annihilating the universe of bugs ! Action 
must be taken immediately to prevent the 
impending catastrophe. We must strug- 
gle valiantly, my dear people, to make the 
world safe for bugs ! ( Renewed applause, 
stamping, and shouts of "Yes! Yes!") 

"This morning," went on Mrs. Rush- 
about, "I had occasion to observe a fly in 
my coffee. The fly in my coffee, dear 
people, was an old fly of the species, I 
judged, Musca domestica. It was strug- 
gling frantically but weakly against the 
thick and oily substance in my cup. I 
lifted it tenderly onto the tablecloth and 
covered it with salt — a remedy which, as 
you doubtless know, has seldom been 
found to fail when applied to drowned 
flies of the species Musca domestica, 
Eprohoscidea, Prohoscidea or Coleoptera. 

"To my unbounded joy the fly re- 
covered and crept at last from his seem- 
ing tomb into the light. I could scarcely 

[ 45 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

restrain my happiness. I feel that my 
life today has not been quite in vain since 
I restored to health this helpless, this piti- 
ful, this dying bug! (Enthusiastic ap- 
plause) 

"With this little practical lesson," con- 
tinued Mrs. Rushabout, "I will close, and 
give place to more eminent speakers. I 
am, after all, but a lover of bugs and make 
no claim to scientific knowledge on the 
subject. 

"But, dear listeners, I must say one 
word more. I feel that we, who are gath- 
ered here, are indeed ushering in a new 
error of Sympathy and Understanding. 
I feel that we are standing upon the very 
brink of Man's Higher Altruistic Devel- 
opment, I feel that in no way is this de- 
velopment more clearly manifest than in 
the formation of this unique Society in 
the Annals of History — this Society 
which is destined, I believe, to encompass 



START A "BIG MOVEMENT" 

the earth and to preserve, for future gen- 
erations, the bugs of today — this neces- 
sary, this unprecedented, this glorious 
Society — this Society for the Prevention 
of Cruelty to Bugs!" (Deafening ap- 
plause and shrieks of "Huzzah! Huzzah! 
Mrs. Rushabout! Mrs. Rushabout!") 

Mrs. Rushabout sat down, smiling con- 
tentedly, and beamed upon the audience. 

Mr. Patchitup, who was the next 
speaker, stepped upon the platform and 
bowed to left and right, not forgetting the 
center. 

"You have just heard," said Mr. 
Patchitup, "a great-hearted, noble-souled 
woman. She has spoken upon this prob- 
lem of bugs generously and with intelli- 
gence, but it seems to me — " and here Mr. 
Patchitup glared directly at Mr. Tearit- 
down, "it seems to me that, in this preser- 
vation of bugs, some exception should be 
made in the case of Mosquitoes, Cock- 

[47 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

roaches and Bedbugs. I beg you to be- 
lieve that I speak from experience when 
I state that Mosquitoes, Cockroaches and 
Bedbugs are not necessary for the wel- 
fare of posterity and might, therefore, be 
exterminated. (Cries of 'No! No! all 
bugs are good!') 

"Mosquitoes," went on Mr. Patchitup, 
"indulge habits which are particularly ir- 
ritating to the uneducated masses and it 
would be extremely difficult to prevent 
Force being exerted upon them. I 
myself," confessed Mr. Patchitup, 
"have once killed a mosquito." In the 
horror-struck silence which followed this 
admission of guilt and weakness unbe- 
coming a Man of Intellectual Propen- 
sities, Mr. Tearitdown being unable, ap- 
parently, to control himself longer, 
leapt upon the platform. 

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he cried, 

"Hear me! Mark well my words! I am 
_ 



START A ''BIG MOVEMENT" 

indeed a lover of bugs! I love bugs as 
no other man or woman in this great as- 
sembly could possibly love them — but, 
ladies and gentlemen, I love bugs so much, 
I respect bugs so deeply, that I cannot 
stand by and see bugs suffer at the hands 
of ignorant mortals! I cannot bear to 
watch bugs trampled under foot, poi- 
soned, and slapped ! I realize that, in spite 
of all that this Society can do, these atroc- 
ities will continue. Therefore, ladies and 
gentlemen, I hold, I maintain, I declare 
that it is to the interest of bugs that they 
be utterly and wholly exterminatedr 

Instantly the Lecture Hall was in pan- 
demonium. Umbrellas, books, and eye- 
glasses hurtled through the air. People 
shouted unintelligibly at one another and 
many couples began to fist-fight — Mr. 
Patchitup and Mr. Tearitdown being 
among the most ferocious of those en- 
gaged. 

_ 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

In the general turmoil I managed to 
gain the door and found Mrs. Rushabout 
beside me. 

"Well," said she, "and what did you 
think of my speech?" 

"Admirable! Mrs. Rushabout!" I cried, 
"admirable! So concise and so appeal- 
ing!" 

"I have always been interested," she 
murmured, "in the future of bugs. I be- 
lieve I am the real instigator of the 'Bug 
Movement.' " 

I turned to look at the Lecture Hall 
where now a seething, disorganized, howl- 
ing battle was in progress. 

"It is a Big Movement," I said. 



[ 50 ] 



Ill 

The Intellectuals 
OCCASIONALLY AGREE 



[ 51 ] 



Ill 

The Intellectuals 
OCCASIONALLY AGREE 

OF course I attended the Friday 
afternoon gatherings at the Sa- 
lon of Miss Snobber and became 
delightfully intimate with many of the 
other habitues. 

There were young Mr. and Mrs. Ego, 
Miss Feel I. Could, Mr. Hearmetalk, 
Comte and Comtesse Risque des plus Ris- 
queest, Mrs. Solo-Mio, her daughter 
Temperamenti Solo-Mio, Miss Vague So- 
cialistus, Mr. Koming Poet, spirited Mr. 
Medium, Mrs. Schreechum (Miss Prima 
Donna that was), several of the well- 
known Bore family, Miss Budding Genius 

(who is making her debut this fall), her 
_ 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

brother. Ailing Genius, her older sister, 
Miss Understood Genius, Mr. Author Ity, 
D.K.S.O.M., Miss Snob Snobber (cousin 
of the hostess) and many others, not 
omitting Mr. Tearitdown and Mr. Patch- 
itup. 

Upon my first appearance at the De- 
bate and Inquiry Club I made, if I say 
it myself, a really stupendous impression. 
I spoke, as Miss Snobber had requested 
that I should, upon the relation of The 
Life of the Bat to the Irish Question, 
and did so in a most fascinating and in- 
genious manner, demonstrating clearly 
how the innate, irrepressible, inordinate 
and irresponsible desire of bats to blink 
corresponds exactly and very miracu- 
lously with the unalterable, unabatable, 
and unfathomable determination of Celts 
toward succeeding. 

"As the bat is to its blinkers, so the Celt 
is to his schemes," were my concluding 

[ 54 ] 



OCCASIONALLY AGREE 

words, and I got it directly from Miss 
Feel I. Could afterward that this sentence 
would henceforth and forever be graven 
indelibly upon her heart. Then and there 
Miss Feel I. Could and I indulged in an 
intimate conversation. We sat side by 
side upon the many-pillowed divan of 
Miss Snobber's salon and she disclosed to 
me the very marrow of her soul. 

Miss Feel I. Could is a languorous 
beauty. Her movements are slow and ab- 
sorbingly graceful. Her eyes burn with 
a consuming passion — a passion, she told 
me, for TRUTH. Her hair has been 
permanently waved and falls in broken 
wisps upon her low, exquisitely whitened 
forehead. Sometimes she wears a hair- 
net, but this is seldom. 

"Always," whispered Miss Feel I. 
Could into my entranced and quivering 
ear — "always, Miss Wouldbe, I have 
longed to write — have agonized to write 

[ 55 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

— have felt that I could write — but have 
not had the time!" 

"Ah, Miss Feel I. Could," I cried, 
"Genius must brush aside all obstacles, 
must plmige itself wholly into the vital 
essence of Individualism wherein only it 
can create in untrammeled freedom!" 

Miss Feel I. Could sighed, and clasping 
her head in her hands gazed abstractedly 
upon me. 

"Always — always — " she repeated 
tragically, "I have felt that I could write." 

"Then you must tear yourself away 
from other duties, you must give your- 
self to Art as a high sacrifice upon its al- 
tar, you must remember the claims of pos- 
terity upon you and not cruelly deny, to 
generations as yet unborn, the fruit of 
your intellect!" 

"Oh, Miss Wouldbe, you are so elo- 
quent, so kind — but really I cannot give 
up important duties — even for Art. I 

[ 56 ] 



OCCASIONALLY AGREE 

often think, Miss Wouldbe, that after all 
it is the little things of life that are impor- 
tant — that it is the little things, you un- 
derstand — that really count. Therefore 
I am willing to suffer, to deprive myself 
of self-expression, to subdue my ardent 
'Will to Power,' to give up, in a word, be- 
coming as great as I feel I could if I 
wished — so that the little things of life 
may not, in my case, be neglected." 

Her unselfish idealism greatly touched 
me. 

"Today," she went on, "has been 
crammed full with little things — those 
dear, customary little things of existence 
that so many despise — an appointment 
at the manicurist's, a simple luncheon of 
six covers at the Ritz, the fatiguing rou- 
tine of choosing a new motor, of buying 
a bunch of orchids, of a visit to the horse- 
show, the necessity of calling at the jew- 
eler's for my pearls, and of deciding what 

[57 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

dress I should wear for dinner — these, 
my dear Miss Wouldbe, these are the 
'little things' I perform because I feel that 
I should and that, therefore, I must; but, 
by many, these are neglected in the pur- 
suit of Art." 

I looked yearningly into her eyes. 

"Ah, if I also might possess your sim- 
plicity and self-effacement!" I exclaimed, 
transported. "But my way is sealed. My 
genius is unleashed, I cannot retrace my 
steps!" 

At that moment up came Comtesse 
Risque smoking a cigarette, and accom- 
panied by Miss Snob Snobber, who was 
explaining how she positively could not 
help snobbing snobs. 

"Vulgar people," said Miss Snob Snob- 
ber, "would rush after you, Comtesse, be- 
cause of your title — I am not \Tilgar. I 
admit, confidentially, that I am extremely 
well-born — but I detest snobs. After 

fesl 



OCCASIONALLY AGREE 

all, Comtesse, our claim to the respect of 
others — our titles — should be computed 
entirely upon an intellectual basis — do 
you not agree?" 

Comtesse Risque agreed. "But I can 
see you are refined," she added. 

Miss Snob Snobber nodded. 

*'0f course. It takes one who is her- 
self refined to discover refinement in an- 
other. I am not like the majority of 
people, Comtesse Risque, I am a Child 
of Culture. I am an aristocrat, yet I am 
not a snob. Almost everyone, Comtesse, 
is a snob of one kind or another. But I 
am not, I abhor snobs." 

Just then Mr. Author Ity,D.K.S.O.M., 
who was to address the meeting that after- 
noon, stood up suddenly behind the 
speakers' table and stared about in 
his usual dreamy, dazed fashion until 
everyone stopped talking. 

Mr. Author Ity is, as you doubtless 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

know, the most inclusive scientist of our 
age. He it is whom the greatest univer- 
sities of the world have showered with de- 
grees and honors of every description. He 
it is who has disentangled, once-and-for- 
all, the conflicting conceptions of mankind 
upon Life, Death and the Hereafter. 

In Mr. Author Ity's book. The Riddle 
of Riddles, everything is explained — ex- 
plained so clearly that an infant in arms, 
on perusing the hallowed pages, would 
gurgle with delight. In fact Mr. Author 
Ity expresses the opinion that there will 
come a day when the intellect of man will 
spring full-blown at birth into perfection ; 
and the sensing of his undying man- 
uscript by infantile but prodigious minds 
is therefore not merely possible, but indis- 
putable probability. 

In liis book Mr. Author Ity plunges 
alone and unterrified into the dark and 
sepulchral depths of antiquity. He 

[ 60 ] 



OCCASIONALLY AGREE 

plunges much farther than anyone else. 
He plunges miles and miles and disap- 
pears into the time when "the world began 
to cool" and the first "cellular physico- 
chemical morula Protoplasm" happened. 
Nobody else was there when it happened 
except Mr. Author Ity, so nobody else 
knows anything about it. He tells you 
exactly what he saw. If you do not be- 
lieve him you had better not say so, as 
Mr. Author Ity has a terrible temper and 
becomes dreadfully excited and put out 
if you will not admit that he was on the 
world when it began to cool, and that he 
discovered the first cellular physico-chem- 
ical morula Protoplasm. 

Mr. Author Ity also explains precisely 
how the trees and the flowers and the ani- 
mals and the people in the world hap- 
pened. They all happened, he says, by 
mistake — or by Chance. But after they 
had made mistakes often enough to be- 

[ 61 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

come a chicken or a yellow daisy or a 
hyena they went on growing by "Sur- 
vival of the Slickest" and "Unnatural 
Deflection." 

Mr. Author Ity is absolutely positive 
about this. He becomes wild with rage 
if anyone contradicts him. He feels that 
the first "cellular physico-chemical mor- 
ula Protoplasm" has confided in him and 
in no one else. He is determined to keep 
up the intimacy. 

He loves to narrate what happened 
after the Protoplasm happened, but can- 
not bear to discuss what happened before 
his Protoplasm happened. When forced 
to answer, however, he replies that the 
world happened before the Protoplasm 
happened; and if questioned further as 
to what happened before the world hap- 
pened, declares that other worlds hap- 
pened; but if for a moment you forget 

yourself and ask what made the other 
_ 



OCCASIONALLY AGREE 

worlds happen, Mr. Author Ity becomes 
hvid with fury, dashes into his laboratory, 
and experiments upon the ultimate point 
of fusion between Matter and Thought. 

Mr. Author Ity's book is really marvel- 
ous, as he himself has so often said. He 
never tires, in fact, of impressing upon 
his acquaintances the peculiar benefits to 
be derived from a careful perusal of it, so 
that now, when I saw that he was about 
to address the guests in Miss Snobber's 
Salon, I felt certain that his opening re- 
marks would contain at least a brief allu- 
sion to the Riddle of Riddles. I was 
not mistaken. 

Mr. Author Ity waited until a deathly 
silence prevailed and then began: 

"Ladies and Gentlemen, my intellec- 
tual coterie, my beloved companions in 
Art and the Sciences, I have been re- 
quested by our gifted hostess to explain to 
you, today, the nature of my recent exper- 

" fin 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

irnents and discoveries in the province of 
chemistry. But before taking up these 
subjects I wish to say a few words about 
my recent book — The Riddle of Riddles 
— which is now in its nine hundred and 
eightieth edition, and which has been 
everywhere acclaimed as the 'most insid- 
ious, the most immoral and the most ag- 
nostic work of the twentieth century.' 

"To these words of commendation, and 
to your own intimate knowledge of the 
book, I need scarcely, I realize, add words 
of my own. To do so, moreover, were 
hardly becoming on my part. Neverthe- 
less I feel it my duty to state that if, by 
any unbelievable chance, there is one 
among us who has not yet read this work 
of genius, to him the entire spirit and tone 
of the Modern Age will be wholly miin- 
telligible, and he will be unable to grasp, 
with any comprehensive power, the mo- 
mentous issues of the twentieth century. 

[ 64 ] 



OCCASIONALLY AGREE 

"Genius, ladies and gentlemen, is 
always recognized by its possessor. One 
cannot possess genius and remain unaware 
of the fact. Therefore I admit that I am 
and have ever been aware of my own un- 
usual talents, and, knowing the inesti- 
mable value of my works, and being of a 
generous, open-hearted nature, I do not 
wish you to be deprived of their beauty 
and wonder. I feel, indeed, about my Rid- 
dle of Riddles as poignantly as Friedrich 
Nietzsche felt about his masterful con- 
ceptions. Referring to his Zarathustra 
Mr. Nietzsche remarked, 'I allow no 
one to pass muster as knowing that 
book unless every single wo7'd therein 
has at some time wrought in him a pro- 
found wound, and at some time exercised 
on him profound enchantment. Then and 
not till then can he enjoy the privilege of 
participating, reverently, in the halcyon 
element from which that work is born, 

[ 65 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

in its sunny brilliance, its distance, its 
spaciousness, its certainty.' 

"There you have it, ladies and gentle- 
men, in his exact words, and as Nietzsche 
felt toward his Zarathustra, so I feel, I 
must confess, toward my Riddle of Rid- 
dles. It is a magnificent work; and I re- 
peat that unless each separate word 
therein has left upon your soul a canker, 
or at the very least a large boil, you can- 
not participate in its discourse." 

I watched the attentive faces of the lis- 
teners. Comtesse Risque, the Solo-Mios, 
the Bores, and Mrs. Screechum had not, I 
knew, read the book. No doubt they re- 
gretted, now, not having visited upon their 
souls this canker. A soul-canker is always 
an asset and often an impulse toward 
original creation (if you know what I 
mean). 

Mr. Author Ity paused for a moment, 
allowing the full import of his words to 

[ 66 ] 



OCCASIONALLY AGREE 

sink deeply into the vacant minds of his 
audience, and then went on: 

"We are now in a position to under- 
take a brief description and summary of 
my latest discoveries, and if you will be 
so good as to draw your chairs a little 
closer I will give you some intimate and 
Unpublished Details concerning the for- 
mation, growth, and final destiny of a 
particular specimen of the first cellular 
physico-chemical Protoplasm." 

Eyes brightened with anticipation, 
hands sought hands convulsively. Miss 
Solo-Mio powdered her nose with trem- 
bling fingers, while Mr. Patchitup and 
Mr. Tearitdown became pale with excite- 
ment. 

We all realized that Mr. Author Ity 
was about to tell us a Secret of the Uni- 
verse. 



[ 67 ] 



IV 

The Intellectuals 
DISCUSS LIFE 



69 



IV 

The Intellectuals 
DISCUSS LIFE 

MR. AUTHOR ITY ran his 
delicate fingers over his bald 
head, tore off his necktie and 
collar, and in a voice hoarse with emotion, 
began : 

"Picture to yourselves, ladies and gen- 
tlemen, picture to yourselves this tiny 
planet of ours hurtling, interminable ages 
gone, through clouds of dense and drip- 
ping vapor. Picture to yourselves this 
planet a smoldering, barren rotundity re- 
volving at terrific speed and exhaling the 
most poisonous and life-destructive of 
gases. Then picture to yourselves, a few 
million years later, this heated globe 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

cooled at last by the influence of its en- 
circling clouds to that psychological tem- 
perature necessary for the spontaneous 
generation of life. 

"Ah, ladies and gentlemen, you are 
present with me at that moment of Su- 
preme Destiny, you are about to witness, 
with me, the birth of that most ingenious 
and remarkable of my discoveries — the 
cellular physico-chemical morula Proto- 
plasm! A tiny liquid drop it is, of a 
slightly yellowish tint, containing, as I 
have so ably and often demonstrated, the 
myriad elements of self-nourishing, self- 
reproducing life. From this minute speck, 
ladies and gentlemen, we ourselves, to- 
gether with all other animate forms, are 
derived !" 

Mr. Author Ity mopped his perspiring 
forehead and glanced triumphantly at 
Miss Snobber, who had been, I observed, 
extremely restless during the discourse. 

[ 72 ] 



DISCUSS LIFE 



Now, leaping to her feet, she confronted 
him, her bosom heaving and her eyes flash- 
ing with resentment. 

"How dare you!" she cried, "how dare 
you, Mr. Author Ity, assert that I am 
descended from a morula Protoplasm? 
Feckless, stupid ass! The blood of the 
Pilgrims flows in my veins — I cannot, I 
will not endure such impudence ! Yellow 
liquid indeed!" 

And Miss Snobber became crimson with 
anger. Mr. Author Ity, too, was no less 
upset. 

"You are!" — he cried — "I repeat it, 
you are, were, and will be but a cellular 
physico-chem — " 

"Stop!" shrieked Miss Snobber, "stop! 
Utter another word and you will never 
enter this door again. Do you not know," 
she continued more calmly, "that all is 
spirit — that all is SOUL?" 

"Wrong!" exclaimed Mr. Author Ity. 

I 73 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

"Nothing is Soul. On the contrary, all is 
Matterr 

For one terrifying moment I feared 
that Miss Snobber would hurl a large Jap- 
anese vase at Mr. Ity, but she recollected 
herself just in time, whispering to me as 
she did so — "valuable vase — Fifth Cen- 
tury — given me by Mysterio, eminent 
psychic." Then turning to Mr. Ity she 
said: 

"All is Soul. Matter does not exist. I 
do not exist. You do not exist. No one 
exists, Mr. Author Ity, but as we appear 
in the irmnaterial extension of intellect. 
Is not this so?" she inquired, appealing to 
us all. 

"Yes, yes," we answered unanimously, 
wondering what Miss Snobber could 
mean. 

Mr. Ity sat down weakly and listened. 

"Life," said Miss Snobber, "exists but 
in the mind. Life is a dream, a mental 

[ 74] 



DISCUSS LIFE 



conception — a ruffling of the abstract 
molecules of the brain — and nothing 
more. This table, these chairs — all the 
furniture in this room — yes, and the room 
itself and everything in it including you, 
my guests, and myself, all this does not in 
reality exist. 

"There is no reality. The word reality 
itself is a myth. The world is a myth. 
Everything lives only in our imagination 
and perishes with it. Appearances are 
deceiving. Nothing is but what is not (as 
Will Shakespeare was wont to remark). 
Intellect, Spirit, Soul — these are the only 
realities !" 

So saying, Miss Snobber attempted to 
sit down, but the chair, by some mischance, 
had been removed in the interim, and she 
therefore sat forcibly and swiftly upon 
the floor, thus causing herself no little irri- 
tation and amazement and (I doubt not) 
several bruises. 



[ 75] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

"A pity," observed Mr. Author Ity, 
"that your imagination, dear Miss Snob- 
ber, was so hard." 

Miss Snobber disregarded the remark 
and, rising with dignity, said : 

"I propose, ladies and gentlemen, that 
we hold open debate upon this vital ques- 
tion of life and of the soul. Comtesse, 
what is your opinion?" 

Comtesse Risque, who had been carry- 
ing on a flirtation with Mr. Koming Poet, 
seemed a trifle bewildered. 

"Ah, what do I think? I? I think Life 
is a little pleasure, a little nuisance — and 
the Soul — it is no matter." 

"Exactly," said Miss Snobber. "The 
soul is not matter." 

"I do not mean that!" cried the Com- 
tesse, "I mean the Soul is no solid — 
whatever you call — the Soul I mean it 
no matter to worry!" 

[ 76 ] 



DISCUSS LIFE 



"But Soul is ALL," repeated Miss 
Snobber dryly, and with emphasis. 

"It no all to me. Miss Snobber. Me, I 
have body and in body a swelled heart — 
like we say — the grande coeurT And 
she smiled meltingly at Mr. Koming Poet, 
who, gazing abstractedly into space, ex- 
claimed : 

"Ah — the soul ! You all are wrong — 
there is but one soul and we possess it in 
common!" 

"What you say?" cried the Comtesse — 
"we have your common soul — ?" 

"That is but his theory," explained Miss 
Snobber. "He cannot prove it. No one 
can prove anything and there is not any- 
thing that can be proved — which is abso- 
lute proof that we live merely in imagina- 
tion." 

"Oh, Dieu! If we can not prove, how 
you prove that — eh ? What use to argue ?" 

"Argument stimulates the intelligence," 



[ 77 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

said Miss Snobber, "and since intelli- 
gence is our being, argument stimulates 
being." 

"The question," said Mr. Hearmetalk, 
who had been unusually quiet, "resolves 
itself into this — are we alive?" And he 
glanced delightedly from one to another 
of the controversialists, feeling that he had 
put the matter in a nutshell and was ex- 
tremely clever. 

''Are we alive, and, if so, what is life? 
or, put more delicately still, if not so — 
what is life?" And he rubbed his little 
hands together determined to contradict 
anything that was said. 

"But I know I am alive!" exclaimed 
Comtesse Risque. 

"You know nothing," snapped Miss 
Snobber. "It is impossible to know any- 
thing. Very likely we have been dead 
centuries and are not aware of it." 

A slight murmur of dismay arose. It 
_ 



DISCUSS LIFE 



is disconcerting even to Intellectuals to 
be informed that they are quite, quite 
dead. 

"Of course," said Miss Snobber, "you 
remember Dostoevsky's works — they are 
imbued with precisely this philosophy — 
Am I Alive? Am I Alive? or Am I Dead? 
he reiterates continually through the lips 
of his great characters — but has no means 
of ascertaining. Ah me! it is the unan- 
swerable riddle of existence!" 

And two large tears emerged from Miss 
Snobber's eyes and impelled (perhaps by 
the force of gravity) rolled down her 
cheeks. 

"The question," said Mr. Author Ity, 
"together with all other questions evolved 
from undue but necessary contraction and 
expansion of the brain units of past, pres- 
ent and future generations, has been sat- 
isfactorily answered in My Book. Life is 
merely a resultant of the multiplication 



[ 79 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

of the cells of the first cellular physico- 
chemical morula Protoplasm, and your 
soul, dear Miss Snobber, is simply an in- 
teresting sensation produced by the attrac- 
tion and repulsion of electrons in the nerve 
fibres of your anatomy." 

"Trash-and-nonsense," said Miss Snob- 
ber. 

"Have we not then," cried Tempera- 
menti Solo-Mio, piteously, "the right to 
call our souls our own?" 

"What is right?" asked Mr. Ego, glanc- 
ing furtively toward his wife, who ob- 
served, "Seldom you, Mr. Ego," with 
much conviction. 

"There is no right!" said Koming Poet. 
"And there is no wrong! Beauty alone 
is our guide and law. But of course," he 
added, "the masses are unable to appre- 
ciate Beauty." 

"Surely there is a little right and a little 
wrong," said Mr. Patchitup, "although 

[80] 




"<4m I alive? or am I dead? " demanded Miss Snohber 



DISCUSS LIFE 



Beauty should be, I admit, the Law of 
our Nature." 

"Certainly there is no 'right,' " shouted 
Mr. Tearitdown — "and there is no Beau- 
ty, either! Everything is decidedly 
wrong!" 

"Including Mr. Tearitdown," mur- 
mured Mr. Patchitup. 

"What is Beauty?" went on Mr. Tear- 
itdown. "No one can say — no one can 
agree. Beauty, therefore, is not. There 
is no Beauty in a World of Evil!" 

"Rather," yelled Mr. Koming Poet, 
"there is no Evil in a World of Beauty!" 

"Hush, hush!" exclaimed Miss Snob- 
ber, "we must not allow our debate to 
become too personal, too heated — we 
must maintain our spirits on a level plane 
of dispassionate conjecture." 

Miss Vague Socialistus jumped sud- 
denly to her feet. 

"Down with Beauty!" she shouted. 

fsil 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

"Down with Evil! Down with Good! 
Down with Souls! Down with Life!" 
And evidently deciding that she should 
go down herself, ran out of the room and 
down the stairs, slamming the door be- 
hind her. 

"There is much value in her sugges- 
tion," remarked Mr. Tearitdown. "I 
would gladly help her knock the world 
to pieces, but she refuses my plans for re- 
construction." 

"Oh dear, oh dear," wailed Mrs. 
Screechum, "what are we coming to? 
Violence walks abroad — Art is strang- 
ling. Only yesterday I sang at the Cos- 
mopolitan and not one hand — you will 
scarcely believe it — not one hand was 
raised in applause!" 

Miss Snobber shook her head sorrow- 
fully and everyone did likewise. 

"Perhaps you will sing for us now," 
she suggested. And after sufficient urg- 

[ 84 ] 



DISCUSS LIFE 



ing, Mrs. Screechum condescended to 
screech. 

I saw then that she had been right. Art 
was most certainly stranghng — or per- 
haps it was just Mrs. Screechum. 



[ 85 ] 



V 

The Intellectuals 
VALUE VALUES 



[ 87 ] 



V 

The Intellectuals 
VALUE VALUES 

MISS R. U. RICH, well known 
in hunting circles, lay back 
upon her wicker chair and 
sipped her tea thoughtfully. It was after- 
noon. The Richs always had their tea 
served in the tiny rustic summer-house on 
the lawn overlooking the graveled walks, 
riotous flowers, and pulsing fountains of 
the huge garden. It was a charming spot. 
Miss Rich and I had become great friends 
since the publication of my Sonnet to the 
Moon. 

Scarcely a day passed that I did not see 
her. Miss Rich is wonderfully well read. 
She has read everything. It is simply 

[ 89 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

impossible to find anything that she has 
not read. Even when I mentioned Mar- 
cus Aurehus she declared that he was a 
"coming author." Our conversation is 
Books, Ideals, and the Advisabihty of 
Marriage. 

Miss Rich possesses an absorbing pas- 
sion for the discussion of Marriage. We 
discuss it tirelessly. We turn it upside- 
down, inside-out, backward, sideways, and 
roll it over and over. 

Miss Rich has a hooked nose, red hair, 
and wears spectacles. She is an heiress, 
and haunted by the dread that she will be 
pursued for her money. As yet no one 
has pursued her for anything. Miss Rich 
herself does all the pursuing. She pur- 
sues a millionaire by the name of I. M. 
Richer, feeling that I. M. Richer, alone 
of all men, does not need any cash. She 
also feels that she, alone of all women, 
needs I. M. Richer. 

[ 90 1 



VALUE VALUES 



"One can do so much good with wealth," 
she confided to me. "So few rich people 
employ their wealth for the benefit of 
others. But I — my whole life is one su- 
preme act of giviiig! I give dances, teas, 
garden fetes, bridge parties, balls and 
dinners. . . . I do not believe in hoarding. 
The thought is repulsive. I give and I 
give — but still I know that my life is in- 
complete. I know that I should marry. 
Only through suffering, Miss Wouldbe, 
can we attain the Ideal. I am willing to 
sacrifice my talents," she admitted, "for 
love." 

According to Miss Rich's music teacher 
(who is paid a fabulous sum) she possesses 
great talent for music. According to her 
painting teacher (who is no less ade- 
quately recompensed) she is a genius at 
painting, and could, if she wished, startle 
the world. She startles it anyway. Miss 
Rich "works" twenty minutes daily be- 

[ 91 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

fore her easel and fifteen minutes daily 
before her piano. The results are amaz- 
ing. She can turn all the great musical 
compositions into ragtime and can paint 
a Madonna that looks like a black cat or 
a piece of peppermint candy. 

Once, in a burst of unselfish enthusiasm 
and appreciation of her wasting gifts, she 
declared that only in Greenwich Village 
could she realize her artistic self. To 
Greenwich Village, therefore, she went, 
accompanied by three maids, a butler, 
cook, waitress and chauffeur, and estab- 
lished herself in Bohemian quarters a la 
"simple" Bohemienne. 

The servants dined sumptuously at 
home in the apartment, but Miss Rich, in a 
frantic quest for "atmosphere," smothered 
in, Bohemian restaurants, choked over Bo- 
hemian dishes and mingled indefatigably 
with Bohemians of every description. She 
had never realized, before, how many ge- 

[ 92] 



VALUE VALUES 



niuses there were. The place swarmed 
with geniuses. From fat, wild-eyed 
waiters to aneemic, studiously dreamy 
girls just out of college every one was a 
genius. The novelty of genius wore off. 
Miss Rich came home. Her talents lan- 
guished. The Pursuit of Literature and 
of Mr. I. M. Richer occupied her time. 
She was not a "New Woman." Marriage, 
she held, was the female's ultimate destiny. 

Sometimes Mr. I. M. Richer was in- 
veigled into the Rich household. He is a 
small young man with dull blue eyes, a 
girlish complexion, and a weakness for 
yellow motor cars. During the war he 
was a Rear Admiral on his father's yacht. 
He was coming. Miss Rich informed me, 
that very afternoon to tea — and come he 
did, magnificently, in his brilliant roadster 
with a carnation in his buttonhole and Mr. 
Ath Lete at his side. 

Ath Lete is a middle-aged boy whose 



[ 93] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

main vice is chronic and imdiininishable 
health. In his youth he habitually flunked 
every examination (except the physical) 
at School and College and was as habitu- 
ally reinstated by the agonized lamenta- 
tions which issued unanimously upon these 
occasions from the football coaches. Since 
then Ath Lete has scrupulously attended 
to the development of his muscles. Mus- 
cles got him an education, so muscles, he 
argued, could get him everything else — 
and they did. They got him Mr. Richer 
as a bosom friend. They got him (through 
his great love of Mr. Richer) a summer 
at Newport and a winter at Palm Beach. 
They got him polo coats, polo ponies, 
golf clubs, tennis racquets, cocktails and 
admiration. 

He strode Apollo-like on his healthy 
way, mingling condescendingly with titles, 
millionaires, and Intellectuals, remember- 
ing always that he was of the manly, rug- 

[ 9* 1 



VALUE VALUES 



ged type, and never allowing his sunburn 
to wear off. This sunburn was his cliief 
pride and delight. He would lie upon 
the beach at Newport for hours acquiring 
it and, upon the slightest intimation of its 
disappearance in winter, would rush 
southward on the Florida Express. He 
may be seen every February-and-March 
at Palm Beach, prone on the seashore. It 
is a glorious sunburn. It is the envy of 
office-plodders, the joy of women. 

It endeth not below his shirt 

(As many sunburns do); 

From head to toe 

All of us know 

He is of copper hue. 

His sunburn does not sting or itch. 

It blisters not a bit — 

That reddish shine 

Girls call ''divine" — 

It makes Ath Lete a hit. 

[ 95] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

He strode forward now, his arm in 
Richer's, and was beautifully rugged and 
manly as he shook hands with us and 
folded himself gracefully upon the 
grass. 

"Mighty hot," he observed, "bully day 
for tennis and a swim." 

( The Richs' domain boasts a swimming 
pool, but Miss Rich did not rise to the 
occasion.) 

"How will you have your tea?" she in- 
quired. 

"Don't want any, thanks. Never eat 
between meals — secret of perpetual 
youth, you know," and he smiled engag- 
ingly. 

"Athy won the men's doubles at New- 
port this summer," said Richer — "I was 
playing with him." 

"Really?" exclaimed Miss Rich. "How 
wonderful!" 

"Oh, that isn't anything," said Ath 

— — 



VALUE VALUES 



Lete, biting a blade of grass. "Do you 
play tennis, Miss Rich?" 

Miss Rich faltered. "No, I — well, I 
play a little — I've played twice." 

Mr. Ath Lete looked pained. "You 
don't know what you miss," he said. 
"Why, I couldn't live — I couldn't ea^ist 

— without exercise !" 

His eyes wandered to Mr. Richer' s 
puny limbs and back again to his own, 
with satisfaction. "Just look what it does 
for me!" he exclaimed. 

I looked. It was a pity that it had not 
done more. 

"The way Americans live makes me 
sick," he continued. "Money — money 

— that's all they care about. Spend days 
in an office trying to get money and die 
young. There's the tj^pical American 
business man for you. But / say — keep 
yourself in trim and let money go hang! 
By the way, Richer, how about that check? 



97 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

"I brought his horse in No. 1 in the 
Cahfornia races last month," he explained, 
turning to me. 

Mr. Richer looked upset. "Why, Ath 
— thought you charged that polo coat up 
to me." 

"So I did, old man — said you wanted 
to give me a birthday present — didn't 
you? Well, no use discussing it here. 
Have to remind him of his little presents !" 
he added, laughing. 

Richer joined in rather weakly. I saw 
that he was gazing inquiringly at Mr. Ath 
Lete's London shoes. Possibly they had 
been a Christmas gift. 

"Yes," said Mr. Ath Lete, "vulgar, I 
call it — vulgar the way American men 
go after that dollar. I don't blame wives 
for complaining they're left too much 
alone — don't blame 'em a bit. I'd com- 
plain, too, if I were a wife. Hell of a way 

to treat a wife! No work for me while 
_ 



VALUE VALUES 



I'm young — time enough for work when 
you're too old to do anything else — eh, 
Miss Wouldbe?" 

"From the point of view of the Artist," 
I said primly, "I disagree with you. The 
Artist, Mr. Ath Lete, must struggle con- 
tinually, whether he wishes it or no, toward 
the realization of his temperament — 
struggle toward the evanescent, the unat- 
tainable, the ideal!" 

"Humph," said Mr. Ath Lete. "But 
you got two hundred dollars for your 
Sonnet to the Moon." 

"Miss Wouldbe is a genius," explained 
Miss Rich. 

Ath Lete looked grieved. 

"I suppose I am," I admitted, "I can- 
not help it." 

"No," said Mr. Ath Lete, "But it's a 
confounded shame!" 

It was his daring manner of speech, be 
it known, together with his sunburn, that 



[99] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

had gained him, in the first place, admit- 
tance to the Society of Intellectuals; 
but this was a Httle too much. Evidently 
he did not appreciate this Society in which, 
by our leave, he moved. 

"I consider it far from shame," I ob- 
served acidly, "to be intellectual." 

The situation was tense; Miss Rich 
looked anxious. Mr. Richer bit his finger 
nails. But Mr. Ath Lete appeared wholly 
unconscious of the seriousness of his blun- 
der. Already he was thinking of some- 
thing else. 

"It's a bully day," he hinted, "for ten- 
nis and a swim!" 



[ 100 ] 



VI 

The Intellectuals 
CREATE WITH FRENZY 



[ 101 ] 



VI 

The Intellectuals 
CREATE WITH FRENZY 

AILING GENIUS wrote, he 
told me, "because he must." 
There was a power that "only 
the elect may feel," an urge — a stimulus 
in his soul toward original creation that 
fired his blood and drove him, staggering, 
toward the IDEAL. It is impossible to 
discover, by questioning Ailing Genius, 
the precise nature of this IDEAL. 

The ideals of Ailing Genius have not, 
very probably, any nature at all. Never- 
theless, Ailing continues to stagger toward 
them. In the morning he staggers out of 
bed into the ideal of a bath ; and all day he 

[ 103 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

staggers between the ideals of the club 
and the Ritz-Carlton ; and in the evening 
he staggers home about 2 A. M. 

He writes only when the "spirit moves 
him." What spirit moves him I do not 
know, but it must certainly be an evil one. 
It moves him about once a week and gen- 
erally when he is at a dinner, or at the 
club — always, at least, when surrounded 
by friends. 

Then he will either slink away like a lost 
soul, almost unnoticed and entirely un- 
wept, into the seclusion of his rooms, or 
else the "spirit," happening to descend 
upon him with unusual violence, "moves" 
him with equal rapidity and Ailing, clutch- 
ing his hair or his hat as the case may be, 
wild-eyed and determined, rushes fran- 
tically from the presence of the common 
weal to "dip (as he phrases it) into the 
eternal element of genius." 

He never dips far enough — or else per- 

[ 104 ] 



CREATE WITH FRENZY 

haps (as he himself explains) his readers 
are incurably stupid. 

Be that as it may, the fact remains that 
Ailing's creations at first convey, to the 
reader's mind, an absolute blank. He 
has read me many of his poems and even 
I, who of all persons am uniquely gifted 
in intelligence, even I am unable to de- 
cipher their meaning. Neither, it seems, 
can Ailing. So there the poems stand, 
"insoluble and glorious as the riddle of the 
Sphinx" (to quote their author). 

"It came to me," said Ailing, referring 
to his Salutation to the Sun, "in a burst 
of radiance, a swirl of star dust, a dizzy, 
rushing torrent of images, words, colors 
— I wrote and wrote — scarce knowing 
what — and there it lies!" 

It "lied," I knew, in every line. The 
sun had never, to my knowledge, been ob- 
served "leaping, swearing, and singing" 

[ 105 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

from cloud to cloud as Ailing asserted 
positively that it did. 

See! Seel Look! Look! 

Behold the Sun 

Leap swearing, singing^ 

From cloud to cloud! 

Its yellow blood 

Drips like a flood 

Out of its heart. 

Red roses, asparagus stalks. 

Apartment houses, caterpillars. 

Tomato cans, newspapers. 

Wooden ladders, cows. 

Flannel underwear, antelopes. 

Violins, pencil sharpeners, pumice stones. 

And fleas — 

On all! On all! 

Watch the Sun-blood fall! 

See! See! Look! Look! 
Brown and lavender, 

[ 106 ] 



CREATE WITH FRENZY 

Purple and green, 

Violet and crimson. 

Blue and black. 

Clot and mingle. 

Swash and tingle 

In a trembling 

Drop assembling 

Of light! 

Light! Light! Light! Light! 

Damn it! 

This poem was considered, by Ailing 
and the Critics, his greatest masterpiece. 
Upon its appearance in one of the Lead- 
ing Periodicals it immediately aroused a 
storm of enthusiasm. Ailing received 
every morning in his mail from twenty 
to thirty dozen letters from admirers who 
implored him to confide to them the Inner 
Significance of the Salutation to the Sun. 

Had he intended to picture the Sun as 

[ 107 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

"blind force" ruling the universe? Had 
he implied the struggle of humanity 
against propulsion by the "Unknown?" 
Had he wished to startle the mortal brain 
out of its groove of accustomed dullness 

and saturate it in a synthesis of color? If 
so, why? And if not so, why not? Or 
did the sun represent the Soul of Man, 
suiRcient unto itself, defying Fate? Or 
perhaps the sun did not represent any- 
thing? And what of the tomato cans, 
wooden ladders, fleas, pencil sharpeners, 
caterpillars and the rest? They would 
die, groaned his admirers, if he refused to 
answer. But he did answer. 

"My meaning," he said, "I cannot di- 
rectly divulge. It is mystic, sacred, in- 
violable. He who seeks it truly, who is in 
tune, as I am, with the Infinite, whose 
soul remains uncramped, whose senses vi- 
brate to Beauty — he will know my mean- 
mg. 

[ 108 ] 



CREATE WITH FRENZY 

After that almost everybody under- 
stood. 

Sometimes Ailing felt the need of At- 
mosphere. He pursued it relentlessly. 
Once he spent three weeks in an insane 
asylimi to analyze, he said, the human 
mind. (His doctor said differently.) 
And once he spent a week in prison to 
get in touch, he said, with suffering. (The 
warden said he had been touched for too 
much bail.) And always he came forth 
reeking with Atmosphere. 

"It is useless to write," he claimed, 
"without Atmosphere. Atmosphere is 
everything. It is the essence of genius. 
The untalented can never acquire it. Let 
us take, for example, a brick. A brick is 
red. A brick is rectangular. In describ- 
ing a brick the common man will speak of 
a brick. His ignorance is pitiable! Who 
wishes to read of a brick as it is ? No one, 
I say, absolutely no one! But who does 

[ 109 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

not wish to read of a brick as it is not? 
Bricks? Fiddlesticks! But sun-washed, 
purpled, concentrated atoms! That, Miss 
Wouldbe, is Atmosphere. 

"Popularity?" cried Ailing. "No! I 
am not a popular writer ! I will not lower 
myself ! I will not court the vulgar taste ! 
I will not drag my genius in the mire ! Let 
them smile if they wish — let them ignore 
— let them refuse to buy my books! It 
makes no difference. 

"I am, Miss Wouldbe, above the de- 
sires of men. Misunderstood? Yes, and 
*to be misunderstood is to be great.' I 
am incapable of envy, of bitterness. I 
realize that I am a soul apart — a soul 
elevated to the lonely performance of a 
high task. Future generations will weep 
over my grave. It is a pity that they do 
not weep over me now — but I do not 
complain. I am content. They are idiots. 

[ 110] 



CREATE WITH FRENZY 

"Editors? Bah! They are more stu- 
pid than the rest. They know nothing of 
Art. They are afraid of the new. 'Kead 
this,' they say, giving me a novel, 'and try 
something on the same order!' Fools! 
Genius will not ape! Genius will not be 
commanded! I hurl the volumes in their 
faces and stride scornfully from the room. 
Perhaps I should not be so hasty — but 
my temperament, Miss Wouldbe — my 
temperament sometimes gets the better of 
me. I am so temperamental!" And Ail- 
ing sighed. 

"The artistic sensibilities," he explained, 
"are so highly and delicately organized, so 
finely poised, that the slightest irritation 
— an Editor, for instance — disturbs their 
entire equilibrium. I have always been 
temperamental. As an infant I used to 
weep for hours for no apparent reason. 
My mother has told me this. She has told 
me that our neighbors on both sides of the 

[ 111 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

street moved away — being quite over- 
come, I suppose, by my perpetual sobs. 

"Then as a youngster, Miss Wouldbe, 
I often lay on the floor, agitated my legs, 
and howled. This habit which was to 
many, apparently, strangely annoying, 
was a natural phase of my high-strung 
and nervous personaHty. 

"My mother, alone, understood this. 
'Dear child,' she would invariably exclaim, 
after my paroxysm had continued for per- 
haps two hours, 'dear child, stop crying 
and I will give you whatever you want.' 
And she did. I obtained in this way a 
pony, an automobile, permission to absent 
myself whenever I liked from school and 
many other favors I do not now recall. 

"I have often thought. Miss Wouldbe, 
how necessary it is that a mother should 
understand her child. The child's desires 
should never be restrained — should 
never be denied. It is our childish un- 

[ 112 ] 



CREATE WITH FRENZY 

gratified desires that, returning in ma- 
turity with ten times more force, determine 
our most ungovernable passions. Passions, 
Miss Wouldbe, are of course ungovern- 
able only when we endeavor to govern 
them. Personally I have no ungovern- 
able passions. 

"The twentieth century has at last rec- 
ognized the rights of the child. The world 
has come to agree, with me, that the 
child's development should proceed nat- 
urally and unaided since the child pos- 
sesses in himself a kernel of growth and, 
like a flower of the field, knows what is 
necessary for its own well-being and hap- 
piness. 

"How clearly I remember. Miss 
Wouldbe, a certain summer's day of my 
youth when my great-aunt — a venerable 
old lady of eighty-three years — came to 
call on my mother. Tea was served in the 
garden. My great-aunt sat upon a rustic 

[ 113] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

chair within arm's-reach of the tea table 
and showed signs of a marked weakness 
for cinnamon toast. I, too, like cinnamon 
toast. I felt that I liked it much more 
than did my great-aunt. I felt this very 
intensely. So intensely, in fact, that I 
took all of the cinnamon toast and put it 
in my pocket. 

" 'Jessabel!' cried my great-aunt, 'Ail- 
ing has taken all the toast!' 'Really?' said 
my mother, and then turning to me she 
added, 'When you are finished eating it, 
dear boy, run up to the house and tell 
Bridget to make you some more.' 

"My great-aunt was enraged. She 
called me a spoiled brat and left the place 
in a fury. As she was stepping into her 
carriage I observed a long ostrich feather 
in her bonnet which I realized in a twink- 
ling was precisely what I needed to deco- 
rate the mane of my pony. Acting, as I 
maintain children should always act, upon 

[ 114] 



CREATE WITH FRENZY 

impulse, I seized this feather, jerked it 
from the bonnet, and ran away. I learned 
afterward that my mother had argued for 
hours in a vain attempt to make my great- 
aunt perceive the reasonableness of my 
possessing that feather. The old lady, 
who was utterly selfish and narrow- 
minded, could not be made to understand 
the necessity of my action. 

"At last my mother, being unwilling to 
deprive me of the prize which I had cap- 
tured with such vim and daring, was 
obliged to purchase another feather for my 
aunt — and the old cat did not even thank 
her for doing it! I tell you this little 
anecdote, Miss Wouldbe, to illustrate the 
fact that had I not possessed such a mod- 
ern parent I would not now be what I 
am!" 

And, glancing at himself in the tall mir- 
ror opposite. Ailing smiled with satisfac- 
tion. 

[ 115 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

"I shudder!" he exclaimed, "fairly 
shudder with horror to think that, had I 
been raised by my great-aunt, I would un- 
doubtedly never have been able to attain 
my unique personahty. From infancy to 
manhood I would have been subjected to 
tyranny! It is terrible — horrible! And 
do you realize. Miss Wouldbe, that had I 
not been allowed to retain that cinnamon 
toast and that ostrich feather, that I 
would unquestionably have longed dis- 
tractedly all my life for ostrich feathers 
and cinnamon toast? No amount of os- 
trich feathers and cinnamon toast would 
ever have satisfied me! I would have 
bought tons of cinnamon toast — I would 
have scoured the world for ostrich feathers 
— and still remained ungratified . . . for 
it is only at the precise moment of the con- 
ception of a desire that that desire can be 
fully satisfied. 

"Fancy the fate that might have been 

[ 116 ] 



CREATE WITH FRENZY 

mine! A whole life rendered incomplete 
because of cinnamon toast and, ostrich 
feathers! Oh, if parents realized this! 
But I was saved — I, Miss Wouldbe, have 
found my highest self. I have found it 
because I deny myself nothing and am 
never denied. It is such a simple doc- 
trine. All great things are simple!" 

I agreed. Everyone thought Ailing ex- 
tremely simple. 

"It is just this absence of restraint — 
of any limiting, narrowing influence in 
my life," he went on, "that makes my 
writing so beautiful yet so unintelligible to 
masses. I preach the beauty of all things. 
I am able to see beauty in a sewer. A 
piece of mud in the gutter stirs my soul 
ecstatically, while a garbage can in- 
variably sends me into transports. It is 
this power of perception that the vulgar 
cannot comprehend. They cannot be- 
lieve that there is beauty in a garbage can. 

[ 117] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

"What is beauty, Miss Wouldbe? What 
is sensation? desire? love? hate? life? It 
is color! Color, and color only. The 
soul is color. The mind is color. When 
I think of a person or of an object I vis- 
ualize them always, Miss Wouldbe, as 
colors. When I think of you I see a daub 
of greenish pink interspersed with yellow. 
When I think of garbage cans I see 
squares of pure lavender rimmed with 
white. When I think of poetry I see pur- 
ple globes speckled with brown. When I 
think of Poverty I see orange cock- 
roaches. 

"Why is this ? How do I know ! I know 
only, Miss Wouldbe, that a garbage can 
presents quite as interesting colors as 
yourself. Were it not for color nothing 
would be visible, no one thing would be 
aware of the existence of the other. I 
preach a new doctrine. I offer a new re- 
ligion to the world — it is color!" 

[ 118] 



CREATE WITH FRENZY 

"There are so many creeds as it is," 
I ventured, "wouldn't it be wise to 
wait ..." 

But Ailing shook his head. 

"You are ignorant," he said, "everyone 
should found a religion. Shall I be out- 
done by Buddha, Henry VIII, or Mr. 
Smith the Mormon?" 

And, smitten suddenly by his genius, he 
ran impetuously out of the room. 



[ 119 ] 



VII 

The Intellectuals 
ARE SOMETIMES YOUNG 



[ 121 ] 



VII 

The Intellectuals 
ARE SOMETIMES YOUNG 

AMONG the most intellectual 
of Intellectuals is the Intellec- 
tual Debutante. This bewilder- 
ing creature is never seen upon the streets 
until after twelve in the morning, divides 
her afternoons between dressmaker, mani- 
curist, and tea at the Ritz; and, as the 
shades of night approach, garbs herself 
in a vast maze of nothing, pinches her 
cheeks, powders, disposes of several cock- 
tails and steels herself for the prey. 

The ingenue has vanished. There was 
a time when unsophistication, modesty and 
innocence were, in the young girl, ex- 
pected. This foolish notion has been ut- 

[ 123 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

terly discarded. The debutantes them- 
selves revolted against it. Fluffy white 
dresses were cast into the scrap heap; 
"sweet" evening frocks gave place to 
"stunning gowns." 

The close of the world war was the sig- 
nal for the Debutante Declaration of In- 
dependence. Debutantes in every city 
large and small came forth in hundreds. 
They appeared jewel-bestrewn, languor- 
ous, intellectual. They smoked, drank, 
shimmied and snapped their fingers in the 
faces of those who disapproved. Their 
declaration of rights if drawn up would, 
I imagine, read something like this: 

"We, the debutantes of 1921, who have 
been cheated of our birthright — of our 
natural prerogative to enter Society at 
the age of eighteen; we who have been 
(although we gracefully held silence) in- 
expressibly bored that so many marriage- 
able young men were killed in the war; we 

[ 124 ] 



ARE SOMETIMES YOUNG 

who pretended as long as it seemed ad- 
visable to do so that we understood ideals, 
national and individual; we who, in a 
Word, have been wilfully deprived of years 
of enjoyment now intend (and do hereby 
declare and set our seal in witness thereof) 
— that we shall have a gloriously good 
time now, after our own liking. Watch 
us!" 

We did and do. And we see risen tri- 
umphant upon the shattered conception 
of the ingenue — the social phoenix, the 
Intellectual Debutante ! Behold the trans- 
formation! She is willowy and pale. Her 
lips are carmine. She reigns — the 
Queen of No-where. 

Her conversation is startling. She be- 
lieves in Spiritism, possesses mediumistic 
powers of her own, finds it impossible to 
remain alone for more than two consecu- 
tive minutes, and must be "doing some- 
thing" every instant that she is not asleep. 

[ 12S] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

The most popular of the year's debu- 
tantes is, I have heard, little Miss Vamp. 
She possesses all the requu-ements of mod- 
ern popularity — a motor in which to 
transport her less fortunate acquaintances 
to and from festivities, a large and inde- 
pendent income, a dull and stylish mother, 
a good-looking and idiotic brother, un- 
questioned social position, and a clear un- 
derstanding of the dogmas of the Inno- 
vation Debutante Platform. She is well 
up on every question of the day — Labor 
Unrest, the Joyless Sabbath, Prohibi- 
tion, Divorce and of course Spiritism. 
She is so well up on these things that she 
could not get down to them if she tried. 

Miss Vamp is also, she will tell you, an 
untiring reader. Not a new novel escapes 
her. She devours every new romance with 
avidity. The Faithless Love she declares 
her favorite. She enjoys especially agree- 
ing with Mr. Welz disagreeing with him- 

[ 126] 



ARE SOMETIMES YOUNG 

self. She will admit ignorance of noth- 
ing — but her passion — her absorbing 
passion — is Spiritism. 

"Oh, Miss Wouldbe!" she exclaimed to 
me, "Spiritism is the New Revelation — 
the Newer Testament of the Newest Age ! 
If you want to be in the swim you really 
must know something about it! 

"Spiritism," said Miss Vamp, "simply 
cannot be denied any longer. Of course 
you read Edmo7id, Miss Wouldbe? Or 
that remarkable book by Sir Spirit Itis 
entitled The Gum SJioe? No? Well, 
listen to this . . ." 

Miss Vamp went over to the library 
table, and picking up the work in question, 
opened it. 

"Just hsten to this, Miss Wouldbe!" 
she cried, "and judge whether we aren't 
standing upon the brink of a New Error! 
... 'I found the medium sitting in a 
darkened room, her head clasped in her 

[ 127 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

hands, her eyes searching the Unknown. 
Ah, those luminous eyes! They seemed 
to pierce the cruel veils of mystery ! 

" 'When I entered she did not glance 
toward me but motioned me to a chair op- 
posite and began to speak in a low, stir- 
ring, sing-song fashion. Her voice vi- 
brated strangely in the dimness. It was 
the Incantation to the World of the Dead. 

" 'Gradually I was able to catch the 
drift of the words . . . "If there be any 
spirits present come and declare your- 
selves ... if there be any spirits pres- 
ent speak unto us ... if there be any 
spirits ..." 

" 'Suddenly the table upon which she 
had been leaning leapt into the air with 
remarkable agility and began to dance 
gleefully up and down. At the same 
time the pictures on the walls swung 
rhythmically to-and-fro, the chairs bal- 
anced each upon one leg, the ornaments 

[ 128 ] 



ARE SOMETIMES YOUNG 

upon the mantelpiece jumped off and 
rolled about the floor and there came the 
faint but unmistakable sound of string 
instruments played, with much feeling, 
out of tune. 

*' 'The reader may judge of my amaze- 
ment, and when in the midst of these won- 
ders the Medium began to speak in the 
voice of my departed and beloved butler, 
Simon Bryce, I tore my hair and wept. 

" 'Ever since his death I had searched 
unavailingly for my gum shoes. I had 
searched my house from garret to cellar, 
had spent all my spare time peering be- 
neath sofas, stoves, beds, chairs, and into 
dark closets and corners. But all in vain! 
My gum shoes had vanished. I knew that 
I would catch cold, yet it was against my 
principles to buy another pair and besides 
(this is very remarkable and I would ask 
the reader to mark and remember this 
point particularly) — somehow I felt that 

■ [ 129 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

sometime, somewhere, I would find those 
gum shoes! 

" 'Imagine my delight, therefore, when 
this Medium who could, I am certain, 
have known next-to-nothing of my attach- 
ments to my butler or to my gum shoes, 
began to speak in the following strain. 
I here reproduce faithfully the conversa- 
tion: 

(Spirit) 'Sir Spirit Itis — Sir Spirit 
Itis . . . are you theah?" 

(Myself) 'I am.' 

(Spirit) 'This is Simon Biyce . . . 
your butler . . . once . . . excuse me 
. . . communication is difficult ... I 
have not yet . . . (silence) . . . I long 
for cigarettes. We have no pipes 
here . . .' 

(Medium) 'Tell us about Heaven.' 

(Spirit) 'We have Nabisco wafers for 
breakfast . . . you must not think . . . 
we do not eat . . . yesterday we had 

[ 130 ] 



ARE SOMETIMES YOUNG 

onions . . . there is a mouse in the 
room . . .' 

(Medimn) 'Never mind. Tell us about 
Heaven.' 

(Spirit) 'I do not like mice. I killed 
mice when in the flesh . . . mice torture 
me here . . . it is revenge . . . beware of 
mice . . .' 

(Medium) 'Is there any question you 
wish to ask?' (to me.) 

(Myself) 'Where are my gum shoes?' 

(Spirit) 'The ice cream freezer ... I 
must go . . . mice . . . mice . . . mice 
. . . ta ta!' (Silence.) 

The Medium wrenched herself out of 
her trance and confronted me. 

"Well?" she asked. 

"It was all true!" I cried brokenly — 
"all — all — he loved cigarettes — he 
killed mice — I will look in the ice cream 
freezer for my rubbers!" 

" 'And dazed and strangely thrilled I 

"" [ 131 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

rushed home. I found the ice cream 
freezer. I thrust my arm far into it — 
the rubbers were not there. But two 
months afterward I found them in the 
box stall of the stable! 

" 'InexpHcable ! Inspiring! Every 
day, since then, I have attended Seances. 
Marvellous, unrepeatable wonders have I 
heard — the dead continue to exist — and 
we have only to offer the Mediums paltry 
sums to be convinced of the astounding 
fact. 

" 'The first week I paid Mme. Pavlino 
five hundred and thirtj^-two dollars for 
getting me into communication with 
Simon Bryce. The next week I paid her 
six hundred dollars and three cents for 
"extending" the contact. I will give 
Mme. Pavlino, if she asks for it, my last 
dollar. I feel that I can never again be 
happy unless I am able to converse daily 
with the spirit of Simon Bryce. 

[ 132 1 



ARE SOMETIMES YOUNG 

" 'Poor man! I fear he is not happy. 
He continues to talk about mice and yes- 
terday he wailed dreadfully. He wailed 
so hard that the Medium became quite 
hoarse. He also said that I did not pay 
the Medium enough money. He asked 
whether his association was not worth 
more to me than six hundred dollars? 
And then he sobbed. He sobbed so dis- 
tractedly that the Medium was obliged 
to interrupt him, for a moment, while she 
went to fetch a handkerchief. 

" 'Then I gave her a thousand dollars 
and he sobbed some more. Today he 
communicated with me by means of rap- 
ping. We had arranged that one rap 
should mean "y^s," and two raps "no." 
The sounds came weirdly out of nowhere, 
but in the locality of Mme. Pavlino's right 
foot. These uncanny rappings are termed 
by the eminent Spiritualist, Sir Chronic 
Crooks, "Percussive Sounds." 

[ 133] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

" 'A young doctor of my acquaintance 
— an unbeliever — was with me at the 
time. All of the Crooks, he said, were 
interested in Spiritism. My friend was 
unconvinced by the "Percussive Sounds." 
He even intimated that Mme. Pavlino's 
toes were double-jointed. The eminent 
Miss Wolf, he said, happened to possess 
toes of this variety. He implored Mme. 
Pavlino to remove her shoe, with which re- 
quest, very naturally (being a modest 
creature) she refused to comply. I was 
hmniliated by my friend's impudence, and 
Madame — Madame was furious ! 

" ' "For this insult," she said, "I must 
have five hundred dollars more." 

" 'I will never again take my friends to 
hear Mme. Pavlino.' " 

Miss Vamp paused in her reading and 
closed the book. "Could anything be more 
convincing?" she cried. "Could anyone 

[ 13* ] 



ARE SOMETIMES YOUNG 

dare sneer at such evidence?" Her eyes 
flashed. 

"Our souls," I agreed, "will soon be 
physically evident to our senses. Our 
error is indeed, as Mr. Missinglink re- 
minds us, the error of the Soul. What 
will the future bring forth? We dare not 
even surmise ! But we know — we are 
confident — we have reason to believe 
that never again will gum shoes, um- 
brellas, gloves, walking sticks, collar but- 
tons or pins be irretrievably lost!" 

"Think!" cried Miss Vamp, "just think, 
Miss Wouldbe, what this means! What 
an enormous step this is toward knowl- 
edge of the Hereafter — of the Beyond ! 
Ah, Miss Wouldbe, the Beyond! Think 
of it!" and she gazed rapturously at the 
fire tongs. 

"Spiritism," she exclaimed, "is, for 
those who understand it, the great Re- 
vealer. Spiritists are one and all. Miss 

[ 135 1 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

Wouldbe, believers in the equality of 
souls once souls are dislocated from the 
flesh. Spiritism has modernized the best 
maxims of the old-fashioned religion — 
Christianity. We do not define Poverty 
in the narrow sense of absence of wealth 
— nor Chastity in the sense of purity of 
morals, nor Obedience in the sense of sub- 
mission to laws. 

"Mediums are invariably rich, some- 
times immoral, and seldom acknowledge 
any law. You see. Miss Wouldbe, the old 
ideals, while retained in name, are brought 
entirely up to date. Who need profess 
the Ten Commandments when a deceased 
relative, tapping coquettishly upon the 
window-sill, tells us that they are rot? My 
own great-uncle did that — and I have 
not hesitated to break them ever since." 

"How convenient!" I exclaimed. 

"Exactly, Miss Wouldbe. Spiritism, 
you see, always adapts itself to our needs, 

[ 136 1 



ARE SOMETIMES YOUNG 

always tells us just what we wish to be 
told. The spirits always agree with us 
and so we always agree with the spirits — 
it is the only intelligent belief!" 

Miss Vamp converted me. I had never 
been able to agree with any religion. Here 
was a religion that would agree with me. 

I embraced it immediately and trust I 
shall live happily ever after. 



[ 137 ] 



VIII 

The Intellectuals 
ABSORB COURSES 



[ 139 ] 



VIII 

The Intellectuals 
ABSORB COURSES 

I SAW Miss Cram Itin in the train 
and sat down beside her. We had 
not met since our schooldays, yet I 
knew instinctively, when I looked at her, 
what she had been doing ever since — she 
had been taking courses. She had the 
restless eye, the fidgety manner and the 
frantic garb of the chronic course-taker. 
Moreover, she carried a tablet and two 
textbooks. The signs were unmistakable. 
Nevertheless I asked. 

"What," I said, "are you doing this 
winter?" 

Miss Cram Itin seemed pleased to see 
me. 

[ 141 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

"Faith Wouldbe!" she cried, "sit right 
down and let's compare notes ! What am 
I doing? My dear, I'm taking a com'se 
— yes, at the University — in Psychol- 
ogy. Oh, very interesting. Have you 
ever taken it? Delightful, really delight- 
ful — yes, a most attractive subject and 
the teacher is divine. Young, curly hair, 
and such eyes — eyes one cannot forget, 
Miss Wouldbe, eyes one cannot forget!" 

"What an absorbing course it must be!" 
I said. "I have always longed to study 
Psychology — also Physiology, Geology, 
Sociology, Chronology, Astrology, An- 
thology, Theolog5^ Etymology and Gas 
Brackets." 

"Gas Brackets!" exclaimed Cram Itin, 
"How magnetic! I have studied every 
subject you mentioned, Miss Wouldbe, 
except Gas Brackets. How stupid not to 
have thought of it ! I will take the course 
immediately — the Science of Gas Brack- 

[ 142 ] 



ABSORB COURSES 



ets — or would it be an Art ? I shall go 
to see the Dean of the University about it 
at once. Maybe you would like to join 
the class?" 

"Ah, Miss Cram Itin," I said, "much 
as I would like to, I cannot. My life is 
dedicated to the instinct of creation. I 
was, I am, I must continue to be a 
genius!" 

"Really?" cried Cram Itin, "How fas- 
cinating! How astounding! I took a 
course upon Genius last spring. A most 
instructive course. Miss Wouldbe, guar- 
anteed to turn out twenty geniuses a 
month — I only stayed two weeks. A 
great pity. But I could not stand the 
strain. I broke down — yes, entirely — 
and took a course in Cooking instead. A 
lovely course. Miss Wouldbe : complete in- 
struction in custards, pies, ices, all varie- 
ties of vegetables, meats, preserves, 
breads, cakes, hashes, candies, salads, salt 

[ 1*3 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

fish, soups, baked beans, dried fruits and 
pickles. 

"No girl in my opinion is prepared for 
matrimony, Miss Wouldbe, until she has 
taken this course, together with Child Cul- 
ture, Sex Hygiene, Evolution, and the 
Fundamental Necessity of Frequent Di- 
vorce. Deprive the girl of knowledge and 
she assumes the responsibilities of mar- 
riage. Personally, Miss Wouldbe, I 
never intend to marry. But had I not 
taken the courses in Child Culture, Sex 
Hygiene, Evolution, and the Fundamen- 
tal Necessity of Frequent Divorce — 
heaven knows what I might have done! 
There was even a time when I might 
have become engaged. But folly. Miss 
Wouldbe, vanishes like mist before the 
sunlight of knowledge! I remain un- 
attached." 
"Tell me," I urged, "about the courses." 
"There were so many," said Cram Itin, 

[ 144 1 



ABSORB COURSES 



"that I scarcely know where to begin. I 
have taken twenty whole courses, fifty 
half courses, and seventy-five quarters. 
My ambition. Miss Wouldbe, is to know 
everything that is to be known. I study 
continually. I am never happy unless I 
am appropriating wisdom. I realize the 
immense, the supreme duty of cultivating 
my mind. I vowed as a small child 
(hardly out of long clothes) that I would 
improve my mind — and I have improved 

it. 

I looked earnestly at Miss Cram Itin. 
There was still room for improvement. 

"The last month," she went on, "I be- 
gan courses in Wireless Telegraphy, 
Ethics, Stenography, Forestry and Busi- 
ness Arithmetic — but passed on to Psy- 
chology. I intend to confine my studies to 
Psychology for at least ten days. Don't 
you think it foolish to attempt too much? 
I have always claimed that we should de- 



[ 145 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

vote our energies to but one thing at a 
time — only one thing. 

"Not long ago I ignored this maxim. 
I took the courses upon Fletcherizing, 
Hypnotism, First Aid, Short Story Writ- 
ing and Esthetic Dancing the same week. 
But it was an utter failure — Miss Would- 
be, yes — utter. So I confined myself to 
the Short Story Course for six days and 
learned the entire theory. I have now 
only to put pen to paper, Miss Wouldbe, 
to produce a masterpiece. Yes, indeed, 
I now have great ability. 

"What is talent? The knowledge of 
how! This knowledge is quickly acquired 
by Courses. Have you taken the Course 
in Futuristic Poetry? Origin? Beauties? 
Tendencies? Five lectures, three hundred 
and forty-two dollars and no cents. You 
must take it! Only three hundred and 
forty-two dollars ! Why ! It's a chance in 
a life-time! I signed for it yesterday. 

[ 146 J 



ABSORB COURSES 



The classes begin Monday. Yes, I am 
giving up Psychology to take advantage 
of this offer. It is really wicked, Miss 
Wouldbe, not to avail ourselves of such 
an opportunity. Did you know that 
brains are of a sponge-like formation?" 

I had not thought my own sponge-like, 
although I had suspected something of 
the sort about the brain of Miss Cram 
Itin. 

"They are," said Miss Cram Itin, "of 
a sponge-like formation contained within 
the cranium, or skull. Mine, I believe, is 
in my skull — but very probably yours, 
Miss Wouldbe, is in your cranium. The 
Textbook states that either locality is 
correct. There is no cause for anxiety — 
none at all. The brain. Miss Wouldbe, is 
divided into a cerebrum, cerebellum, and 
a medulla oblongata. Isn't it interesting? 
(And nobody knows who divided it. And 
nobody knows what a cerebrum is — or 



[ 147 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

what a cerebellum is — or what a medulla 
oblongata ought to be.) Now isn't that 
fascinating? Everyone pretends to know 
— but no one does. I found that out 
immediately. The study of Psychology, 
Miss Wouldbe, is the study of what no- 
body knows. . . it is an immense subject 
— there are volumes and volumes upon 
it. 

"I just wanted to know something that 
nobody knew; and now I know nobody 
knew anything. Yes, fascinating! Fas- 
cinating! A brain, Miss Wouldbe, weighs 
48 ounces. Just fancy! 

"But it is not yet possible to weigh a 
thought. That, however, will soon be ac- 
complished. Personally I believe that a 
thought about a cow would weigh more 
than a thought about a blue corn-flower 
without leaves. I should say, myself, 
that a thought about a cow would weigh 
19 to 29 pounds, while I am quite certain 

[ 148 ] ^^ 



ABSORB COURSES 



that a thought about a blue corn-flower 
without leaves would weigh only 2 or 
perhaps 2j pounds. 

"I differ upon this most strenuously 
with my teacher. He stubbornly main- 
tains that the corn-flower possessing, as it 
does, much vibration of the spectnmi in 
its color — blue — would therefore be, 
when translated into thought, a blue 
thought. Blue thoughts he declares are 
intrinsically heavier than yellow thoughts, 
and a cow being yellow, the thought 
of a cow would more than likely, you 
understand, remain of this hue. There- 
fore, the blue in the corn-flower would 
outweigh the yellow in the cow — if you 
follow the inference. But I contradict 
his statement. I contradict it flatly!" 

"Yet it seems logical," I murmured. 

"Logical? \Miat is Logic? Have you 
taken, Miss Wouldbe, the Course in Ele- 
ments of Logic? Its Tone? Composi- 



[ 149 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

tion? Utility? No? Then you are in no 
position to speak of Logic!" and she 
frowned upon me with much disapproval. 

"There is another subject that has in- 
terested me," I began, endeavoring to 
turn the conversation, "and I wonder, Miss 
Cram Itin, whether you can enlighten me 
upon it — it is Religion. While not my- 
self of a religious twist of mind, I have 
always derived much pleasure from ob- 
serving the religious convictions of my 
friends. A conviction I consider merely 
a sign of weakness — I, Miss Cram Itin, 
believe in everything and nothing." 

I paused, feeling that I had expressed 
myself exceedingly well. 

"Everything and nothing!" echoed Miss 
Cram Itin. "How charming! How sym- 
pathetic! How broad! Oh, if the age of 
intolerance were only truly past! Oh, if 
all men and women could possess your 
sublime vastness of vision!" 

[ 160 ] 



ABSORB COURSES 



I admitted, modestly, that it was indeed 
a pity that they could not. 

"The trifling pygmies bicker continu- 
ally," I said. "They are forever arguing 
upon 'Creeds,' 'Canon Law,' 'Popes,' 
'Unity,' and a thousand petty problems 

— but I, Miss Cram Itin, I believe in 
everything and nothing!" 

Cram Itin nodded. 

"I took a Course upon Religions last 
Fall, Miss Wouldbe; I know everything 
about them. I have evolved my own creed. 
I believe absolutely in Nihilism, Panthe- 
ism, Monism, Buddhism, Mohammedan- 
ism — anything but Christianity. Chris- 
tianity, Miss Wouldbe, is too definite. 
Like Voltaire, I am an Atheistical Deist 

— if you know what I mean." 

I could only guess. But then, so only 
could Miss Cram Itin. 

"We should found this Sect," she said 
enthusiastically — ''The Everything and 



[ 151 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

Nothing Sect. It would have thousands 
of supporters. It already has thousands, 
Miss Wouldbe ! Why, there is not a man 
in ten who knows what he beheves, and 
there is not a woman in ten who will not 
believe anything. Why! It would be su- 
perbly easy! It is the attitude of the nor- 
mal being toward religion ! You have put 
it in a nut-shell." 

It was nice to know that I had put this 
into Miss Cram Itin's head. 

Before leaving I expressed the hope 
that the Course upon Gas Brackets would 
prove inspiring. 

Miss Cram Itin assured me that it could 
not possibly prove otherwise. "Gas 
Brackets," she added, "are so little un- 
derstood!" 



[ 152 ] 



IX 

The Intellectuals 
STALK CELEBRITIES 



[ 153] 



IX 

The Intellectuals 
STALK CELEBRITIES 

AH," said Mrs. Stalker sipping 
her Creme de Menthe pensively, 
"it is the age of democracy — 
Miss Wouldbe — of Equality. 

"Just fancy! Isn't it interesting? 
Isn't it thrilling? We are living in an era 
of change. Miss Wouldbe, immense 
change. The old institutions are totter- 
ing. It is glorious ! It is inspiring! Let 
all Monarchs be assassinated, I say — or 
done away with one way or another. It 
may be cruel — but it is necessary, Miss 
Wouldbe — oh yes, quite ! 

"The poor dear Czar of Russia was an 
intimate friend of mine — I met him in 

[ 155 1 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

Germany many years ago — 'Nick,' I 
used to say to him — 'Nick, there is no 
use keeping up the notion of the divine 
right of kings — none at all, Nick, mark 
my words.' 

"But he didn't. And now there he is — 
as dead as possible! A pity! But abso- 
lutely necessary, you know — oh, abso- 
lutely ! We have made the world safe for 
Democracy, Miss Wouldbe, and that 
means it is positively unsafe for anything 
else, and it remains to be seen, of course, 
whether Democracy is safe for the world 
— but come it must. World Democracy ! 
Oh, wonderful, wonderful!" 

And finishing the Creme de Menthe, she 
slipped the waiter a ten-dollar bill, lit a 
cigarette, and leaned forward confiden- 
tially. 

"Now that the War is over, Miss 
Wouldbe, we can admit that Patriotism 
is only an antique rite, an outworn emo- 

[ 156 1 



STALK CELEBRITIES 

tion, a hollow conception that the intel- 
lect of Modern Man normally refuses to 
accept. In time of conflict it must, of 
course, be artificially stimulated. It must 
be administered hypodermically to the 
Masses — or war would not exist. 

"But war, as we all know, is most neces- 
sary. It is the process adopted by Nature 
for the correction of over-population. To 
prevent war, Miss Wouldbe, is to work 
in direct opposition to Nature and such an 
attempt is rightly foredoomed to failure. 
This talk about the prevention of war — 
I have no sympathy with it. It is senti- 
mental idiocy. I am not in favor of the 
League of Nations precisely because its 
provisions might prevent conflict. 

"Why, think of it, Miss Wouldbe! 
Were it not for this last war there would 
be at this very instant twenty million more 
men in the world than there are. Twenty 
million ! Horrible, horrible ! Individually 

[ 157 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

we may like them. Collectively men are 
insupportable. 

"But to return to what I was saying — 
this is the age of Democracy. Rulers 
must go. They may conscientiously be 
stabbed, shot, hanged, poisoned, beheaded, 
smothered, drowned — electrocuted. Any- 
thing is permissible. In certain instances 
they may be requested to abdicate; or if 
they insist upon remaining they may be 
allowed to sit upon their thrones, and 
listen while We talk. On no account, how- 
ever, should they be permitted to utter a 
syllable. The thought is preposterous. 
I shall vote for the Prohibition of Every- 
thing. Kings indeed! We are each one 
of us a King!" 

And Mrs. Stalker glared ferociously 
about. Suddenly, her eyes brightened — 
she jumped up. 

"Why, there is Lieutenant Watch Me, 
aide to Prince Ivaniski! A charming 
man! You must meet him, my dear — he 

[ 158 ] 



STALK CELEBRITIES 

is a lamb — a perfect lamb!" And rush- 
ing forward she captured the lamb by the 
arm and steered him adroitly to our table, 
the focus of all eyes. 

Lieutenant Watch Me was prevailed 
upon to join us in a cocktail. 

"As you know — we have Prohibition 
in this country — you do not mind drink- 
ing it out of a coffee cup?" asked Mrs. 
Stalker anxiously. 

The Lieutenant did not mind. He said 
he would not mind drinking it out of a 
pitcher. 

"I cannot imagine why the Govern- 
ment thought it necessary to pass such a 
law," said Mrs. Stalker. "Personally, I 
could see no harm in drinking intoxicants 
from wineglasses — but apparently that 
is disintegrating to public morals. Liquor 
must, by edict of Congress, be served in 
future in jugs, teapots, kettles, coffee 
cups, finger bowls, vases and buckets. It 

[ 159] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 



is absolutely forbidden to use the cus- 
tomary wineglass in hotels, restaurants, 
or any public place." 

"After all, wineglasses hold so little," 
said the Lieutenant. "No doubt your 
Congress realized this. A teacup is a 
more generous and sensible container for 
a cocktail." And he gazed sorrowfully at 
the small after-dinner coffee cup in the 
depths of which his own "orange blos- 
som" snuggled abjectly. 

"Ah, yes," said Mrs. Stalker, "perhaps 
you are right. Only yesterday I was 
speaking to a friend of mine — a lawyer 
— on the subject. He had just sentenced 
a wine dealer, he told me, to six months' 
imprisonment and a fine of five hundred 
dollars for selling whiskey in goblets. My 
friend confiscated the whiskey and will 
sell it to you in barrels. 'Always come to 
me,' he said, 'when you want barrels of 
whiskey.' " 

[ 160] 



STALK CELEBRITIES 

"Delightful," said the Lieutenant, 
"what a thoughtful and sympathetic 
man!" 

"Yes," said Mrs. Stalker, "lots of law- 
yers are like that." 

"Prince Ivaniski is coming to Phila- 
delphia next week," said the Lieutenant, 
after a moment. "He is, as you know, 
touring the country to thank your open- 
hearted countrymen for their monetary 
support. The support has not been given 
yet, but the Prince feels certain that it will 
be, when they see him. He is a splendid 
fellow. So democratic, such a lover of 
freedom! He does not wish to return to 
his own country until his father and his 
two brothers have been assassinated. Only 
then will his subjects realize that he is an 
unfettered spirit and grant him the ex- 
ercise of unlimited power. 

"He is very clever. 'Loot,' he said to 
me, 'I know how to handle my people. I 

[ 161 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

know how to gain my rightful ascendency. 
I have but to change my title of "Em- 
peror" to that of "Bolshevik" and they 
will make me Caesar.' Now I call that 
genius. 

"Genius in a statesman, Mrs. Stalker, 
is but the ability to make your people 
clamor for what they do not want. That 
is precisely the intention of Prince Ivan- 
iski. The people do not want Prince 
Ivaniski — well, Prince Ivaniski wants 
the people. The people do not want a 
ruler. Prince Ivaniski wants to rule. 
Prince Ivaniski resigns his title, proclaims 
himself Socialist, Bolshevist, Atheist, what- 
ever they will — and refuses to reign. In- 
stantly he is foi'ced upon the throne, flat- 
tered, obeyed, adored, simply because he 
has allowed the masses to talk until they 
are exhausted, argue until they are be- 
wildered, and kill each other until only 
a few remain. Then, and then only, will 

[ 162 ] 



STALK CELEBRITIES 

they clamor for what they do not want — 
and what they do not want, in this case, is 
Prince Ivaniski." 

"Exactly," said Mrs. Stalker. "I agree 
with you perfectly. I have met the Prince. 
I felt immediately that he was a lover of 
freedom. 'Mrs. Stalker,' he said to me, *I 
am a man in the highest sense of the word 

— I am unguided by any law but my own 

— if I happened to feel like it, Mrs. 
Stalker, I would tear out your hair, 
throttle you, and fling you out of the win- 
dow!' I knew that he spoke the truth." 

Lieut. Watch Me nodded. "He would," 
he said. "He would 'speak the truth' — 
sometimes." 

"I have prepared an apartment on the 
ground floor of my home for him," said 
Mrs. Stalker. "He promised to visit me 
when he came to the city. I have had the 
rooms completely done over in his honor. 
They have been upholstered in purple, 

[ 163 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

and the ceilings have been decorated by 
Martoni with skulls and cross-bones. I 
hope he will appreciate it." 

"Why, Mrs. Stalker!" I exclaimed, 
"did you not tell me that, in the Age of 
Democracy, every sovereign should be de- 
nied his office?" 

Mrs. Stalker was unflustered. 

"My dear, yes. But I was speaking in 
the abstract — according to the general 
rule. There are exceptions. Every sov- 
ereign coming to America is an exception 

— or else he would not come. The logic 
is perfectly clear." 

It was so clear that anyone could see 
through it. 

"Besides, Prince Ivaniski is a free spirit 

— and not a king — yet. Certainly I 
believe in Democracy ; certainly, as I have 
always maintained, sovereigns should be 
deposed — but in reality, Miss Wouldbe, 
in reality, you understand, this is 

[ 164 ] 



STALK CELEBRITIES 

inadvisable. Theory and practice are 
two parallel lines which never meet. There- 
fore I intend to entertain Prince Ivaniski. 
There will be a ball in his honor, a Japan- 
ese fete in my gardens, a parade, hun- 
dreds of parades. The people have talked 
so much about Royalty. They are simply 
dying to see what they have been talking 
about. Everyone must have a good look 
— but theoretically, you understand, I 
am against Prince Ivaniski." 

"And theoretically," said the Lieuten- 
ant, "we approve Democracy." 

"While practically," I observed, "we 
disprove our theories." 

At that moment in came Miss Vague 
Socialistus, preceded by a bowing head 
waiter and accompanied by Re Form, the 
leading man in Strengtli — the thrilling 
problem play of Immorality that was 
stunning the city. 

Mrs. Stalker induced them to sit with 

[ 165 1 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

us. Vague Socialistus was evidently en- 
amoured of Mr. Re Form. She watched 
him, fascinated, and smiled whenever he 
glanced toward her. Re Form began 
almost immediately to discuss himself. 

"I say it in all modesty, Mrs. Stalker 
— but it is a fact that I have done more 
toward elevating the drama than any actor 
living. I have elevated it, Mrs. Stalker, 
to the appreciation of the worst thug in 
my audience. My audience, in fact, is 
largely composed of thugs. I have brought 
the Art of the Stage within the compre- 
hension of thugs. I thrill thugs! I ap- 
peal to thugs! I transfix thugs! — and 
my Moral Issues send thugs into ecstasies. 

"The thug, Mrs. Stalker, is, as it were, 
the first rung upon the ladder of Society. 
I believe in beginning reform in the utter- 
most depths. I show evil in all its forms. 
Every act of Strength, Mrs. Stalker, 
reeks with evil — its delight, its f ascina- 

[ 166 ] 



STALK CELEBRITIES 

tion, its humor. Up to the very last in- 
stant of the production, Mrs. Stalker, my 
audience is made to feel the seduction of 
it — is made to imagine its advantages, is 
encouraged to indulge in it. 

"But in the last instant — just as the 
curtain is descending — I gather my 
genius together, step firmly to the head- 
lights, and stirringly announce the effects 
of evil and the moral of the play! Can 
you doubt, Mrs. Stalker, that the audi- 
ence will depart bettered by my ultimate 
denunciation of crime? 

"Certainly it has witnessed, for two 
hours, crime in its most attractive form — 
has experienced, to a certain degree, its 
charm. Individuals have even been 
tempted (through my realistic acting) to 
go and experience what they have watched 
imitated with such appeal — nevertheless, 
can you doubt that, when my final thun- 
dering exposition of the consequences of 

[ 167 1 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

evil rings in their ears they will not utterly 
banish from their minds such alluring con- 
ceptions and retain only the remembrance 
of my final warning? Certainly, Mrs. 
Stalker, this will be the case — as admitted 
unanimously by the Board of Sore- Senses. 
Who could possibly maintain otherwise?" 

"No one!" cried Mrs. Stalker. "No 
broad-minded person ever maintained 
anything!" 

Re Form nodded, and continued: "Lis- 
ten, Mrs. Stalker — just listen, if you 
will, to my final bitter, downright, mas- 
terful and staggering condemnation of 
evil and definition of Good as proclaimed 
by me in my stupendous drama Strength. 
The curtain, you understand, has already 
begvm to fall — I must make the moral 
of the production clear in a few terse sen- 
tences — sentences, Mrs. Stalker, that 
will echo in the minds of that audience 
until the crack of doom — sentences that 

[ 168 ] 



STALK CELEBRITIES 

will haunt them contmually and drive 
them mierringly to the performance of 
great actions — sentences that will raise 
humanity to a higher level — that will em- 
body the meaning, the purpose and the law 
of being — listen ! 

"'My friends!' I shout (and the cur- 
tain is now almost down ) 'My friends ! — 
the moral of My Play is this! If you 
must seek evil — seek it! If you must 
know its bliss — know it ! If you must 
live selfishly, do so! If you must break 
the heart of another, break it. But re- 
member, oh my friends — remember — 
and I beg you this with all the prayerful 
agony of my soul — be moderate ! 

" 'Sin if you will — sin happily, un- 
thinkingly, often — but only do not sin in 
excess. In excess alone, dear friends, lies 
danger. 

"'Go! Return to your homes! Hus- 
bands, thrash your wives! Wives, desert 

[ 169] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

your husbands! Children, despise your 
parents! Masters, persecute your ser- 
vants! Servants, hate your masters! 

" 'But remember — remember — I im- 
plore you, my dear people — be moder- 
ate!'" 

Mr. Re Form paused, gasped, and 
wiped his eyes. 

Vague Socialistus was weeping softly. 
Lieut. Watch Me gulped audibly and 
Mrs. Stalker laid her hand caressingly 
upon the hand of Mr. Re Form. 

"Wonderful!" she murmured. "Stun- 
ning! Crushing! Illuminating! Oh, Mr. 
Re Form what power, what magnetism, 
what command of language!" 

Mr. Re Form clenched his delicate, lily- 
like hand with its beautifully manicured 
jfinger nails, and gritted his teeth. 

"Strength!" he muttered — "Strength! 
— that is all I possess. That is what the 
world needs, Mrs. Stalker." 

[ 170] 



STALK CELEBRITIES 

"Here is a little leaflet" — he went on, 
diving into his pocket — "which contains 
the newspaper criticisms of the play. It 
might interest you." 

We read. 

"Strength, Re Form's stupendous 
drama of Immorality, has come to stay at 
the Popular Theatre. It is safe to predict 
that it will be the success of the season. 
Mr. Re Form, in his zeal for beauty and 
goodness, shows us graphically, and with 
all the power and suggestiveness of his 
genius, the appeal of ugliness and evil. 
In the scene in which 'Youth' chokes his 
aged Mother to death and burns her body 
neatly in the fireplace, Mr. Re Form 
reaches a pitch of indescribable mastery 
over his art. We throb with the ardor of 
the young murderer. We vibrate with 
him in terror and in triumph and feel with 
him indomitable hatred toward all petty 
and restraining influences. 

[171 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

"In his interpretation of Love, Mr. Re 
Form is no less faithful to detail. Every 
aspect of passion in its most insidious and 
attractive form is carefully reproduced. 
Not a thought — not a desire — that is 
not clearly depicted. In the climax of this 
theme Mr. Re Form shows us that reason 
and principle can never be expected to 
control instinct. It is, on the whole, a pro- 
duction of gigantic force and we feel con- 
fident that its high and striking moral — 
'Each for Himself and All for Each' will 
not be disregarded." 

"Marvellous!" exclaimed Mrs. Stalker. 
"Not one word of adverse criticism! You 
are famous for all time, Mr. Re Form!" 

But Re Form, disposing of a whiskey- 
and-soda served as tomato bouillon, ap- 
peared quite content with the present. 



[ 172 ] 



X 

The Intellectuals 
VISIT WIDOWS AND ORPHANS 



[ 173 ] 



X 

The Intellectuals 
VISIT WIDOWS AND ORPHANS 

YES," said Mrs. Rushabout, "next 
to the Preservation of Bugs, the 
Poor are my consuming passion. 
Hugo," she commanded the chauffeur, "to 
the slums!" 

"I have an engagement for tea at the 
Ritz," she explained, turning to me, "and 
must be back in twenty minutes — but 
that will give me plenty of time to intro- 
duce you to my dear, dear friends among 
the poor. Have you ever realized, Miss 
Wouldbe, what an elevating, stimulating 
and inspiring influence we are able to 
exert upon these creatures? 

[ 175 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

"I do not believe in giving them money 
— I never give them money — but I give 
them my time and my advice and the ben- 
efit of my society and the dear things are 
SO grateful. 'Friendly visiting,' Miss 
Wouldbe — that is what I do — yes, once 
a week regularly. And I have invented 
such a unique manner of getting to know 
these people — one must be most tactful, 
of course, or they will not open their 
quaint, cramped hearts to us — in fact 
very few persons, Miss Wouldbe, possess 
the tact, delicacy, and purity of purpose 
essential toward producing good results in 
work among the very poor. But I have 
always been most successful. 

"I don't know what it is that attracts 
people to me, but something there un- 
doubtedly is, and I make friends among 
them so easily! I suppose it is my per- 
sonality — intangible you know — and 
yet undeniable. 

[ 176 ] 



VISIT SLUMS 



"Ah, here we are at Fitzsimmons 
Street, — Hugo, you may stop at the curb 
here and wait for us. If we do not return 
in fifteen minutes, call the police. 

"I always think it safer to provide for 
emergencies," she said, turning to me once 
more, "one can never tell what may hap- 
pen in these dreadful dirty little alleys — 
and I always leave the car some distance 
from the house of the creatures I intend 
to visit — yes, thoughtf ulness, nothing 
more — it would be so vulgar to roll up 
to their door in a Rolls-Royce, you know, 
when they have scarcely enough money 
for a loaf of bread. 

"Yes, really, some of these people are 
dreadfully poor — but I never believe in 
giving money, Miss Wouldbe, oh, never — 
that is against my principles. It encour- 
ages begging, drunkenness, theft, over- 
feeding, illegitimacy, lying, laziness, stu- 
pidity, and all manner of crime. More- 

[ 177 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

over, I consider it simply a means of bleed- 
ing one's conscience — nothing more. It 
is, of course, easier to give money than to 
give, as I do, my personality. 

"Why, you have no idea how these peo- 
ple adore me — comical, really comical — 
they simply exist for my visits, and of 
course I know all their life histories — 
very interesting, too — as a rule very 
odd — but essentially their own fault, 
the tragedies — I tell them so over and 
over. We are the captains of our souls, I 
tell them, we control our destinies — but 
they have a perverse sense of humor : 'Per- 
haps we control our destinies but we do 
not control our rents,' said one old woman 
and laughed like a devil. 

"There was no humor in the remark. 
However, I let it pass — tactful, you 
know, and never insistent — that is the 
way to manage these people." 

And Mrs. Rushabout divested herself 

[ 178] 



VISIT SLUMS 



of her string of pearls, her platinumed 
pins, and her diamond rings, dropping 
them into her satchel. 

"I always take off my jewelry," she 
explained, "bad taste to wear it before the 
starving. My heart aches for them. How 
I long, sometimes, to give them a little 
money — or at least a pearl or two ! — 
but I resist the temptation — utterly 
against my principles — conducive to beg- 
ging, excessive eating, theft, illegitimacy, 
lying, laziness, stupidity and any other 
crime you can think of. I curb my natu- 
rally generous instincts, Miss Wouldbe, 
— otherwise, believe me, I would return 
home without a stitch on my back, a single 
stitch — my heart is so big. I would so 
delight in giving. It is the curse of my 
life that my principles forbid me to give 
lavishly, inordinately, continually. 

"Ah, well, we must each of us bear our 
afflictions bravely in silence!" And, 

I 179 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

sighing deeply, Mrs. Rushabout picked 
her way along the mud-coated, tin-can- 
decorated and children-obstructed side- 
walk. 

There were indeed hundreds of chil- 
dren. They ran screaming between our 
legs, sprawled delightedly in the gutter, 
bumped us from every side, snickered 
audibly as we passed, and even pelted us, 
from the rear, with cherry stones. This 
last was too much. Mrs. Rushabout 
turned furiously on the main instigator of 
the attack — a dirty, freckle-faced urchin 
with a sticky grin and a Lollypop, who 
straddled the curb, sucked, and stared. 

"How dare you?" cried Mrs. Rush- 
about. "How dare you be so rude, little 
imp? Doesn't your mother teach you 
manners? Don't you goto school? Apol- 
ogize immediately r 

He of the Lollypop continued to stare, 
impudently. 

[ 180 ] 



VISIT SLUMS 



"Apologize!" repeated Mrs. Rush- 
about, "apologize immediately, I say!" 

The urchin removed the LoUypop from 
his mouth, stuck it behind his ear, and ob- 
served ecstatically: 

"Gee, fellers — watch the old gink spit!" 

I thought Mrs. Rushabout would faint. 
She became pale. 

"Vulgar little thing!" she cried bitterly. 
"Tills is the thanks I get for choosing the 
rocky path of helpfulness to others — for 
offering my entire days in the interest of 
the deluded masses! This is the thanks! 
You see what I have to suffer! You see 
the patience, self-sacrifice and abasement 
that this work demands. 

"Ah, well, we must hurry or I will not 
get to the Ritz for tea!" 

And Mrs. Rushabout led on. 

"But I have not shown you my usual 
plan of procedure in the slums," she said, 
"I have found that the most direct and 



[ 181] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

facile manner of becoming acquainted 
with families is to do so through the chil- 
dren, and all of them — those at least who 
are not perfect little beasts like that 
boy (pointing backward) take to me 
immediately, Miss Wouldbe — oh, quite 
immediately." 

"They tell me exactly how their parents 
make a living, whether both or only one of 
them drinks, how many there are in the 
family, whether an addition is expected, 
and other details which would be rather 
difficult, you understand, to obtain di- 
rectly from utter strangers who have lost 
the sweet unconsciousness of childhood. 
Children confide in me naturally, Miss 
Wouldbe — there is something about me 
that — well, you shall see." 

And she stopped before a diminutive, 
rumpled girl who was engrossed in the 
absorbing pastime of rummaging in a gar- 
bage can. 

[ 182 ] 



VISIT SLUMS 



"My dear child!" exclaimed Mrs. Rush- 
about. "You must never do that — never, 
my dear — oh horrid ! kee ! kee ! Naughty ! 
Mustn't do!" 

The little girl surveyed Mrs. Rush- 
about solemnly with a pair of large brown 
eyes. 

"Now where do you live?" asked Mrs. 
Rushabout. "Tell the pretty lady. Have 
you any little brothers and sisters? Does 
Mother take in washing?" 

Still the small girl remained mute and 
entranced. 

"Don't be afraid," went on Mrs. Rush- 
about, volubly, with honeyed sweetness — 
"Nothing hurt nice little girlie. Pretty 
lady loves little girlies — pretty lady 
wants little girlie to talk." 

Then it was that the "little girlie" made 
an unfortunate remark. 

"Where," she inquired, "is the pretty 
lady?" 



[183 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

Mrs. Rushabout seemed, for a moment, 
stunned, but recovered in Spartan fashion. 

"Pretty lady talking to you now — 
answer her, dearie, does Mother take in 
washing?" 

"Whatchu want t'know for?" burst 
out "little girlie" with sudden suspicion. 
"Is your clothes dirty?" 

Mrs. Rushabout gasped. 

"Never," she said to me, as we walked 
hastily away, "never, Miss Wouldbe, 
have I been so brazenly insulted! Never 
have I failed to succeed in rendering chil- 
dren my abject slaves within a moment — 
there is a conspiracy afoot. Miss Would- 
be, a conspiracy, mark my words. There 
will be an uprising — an uprising of the 
masses!" And she shook her head signifi- 
cantly. 

"Well, here we are at Mrs. Mulligan's. 
A dear, dear friend of mine. Miss Would- 
be — poor woman! Her husband is a 

[ 184 ] 



VISIT SLUMS 



confirmed drunkard ; she has ten children, 
and her rent is — er — I forget the 
amount — but enormous, oh, very enor- 
mous!" 

So saying she tapped upon a paint- 
blistered door that tilted coquettishly to 
one side and trembled from head to foot 
under her touch. It was opened after 
much scrambling and bumping about in- 
side by a pitifully thin, dreary-eyed 
woman with a corkscrew knot of hair upon 
the exact top of her head, who carried a 
strenuously objecting bundle of rags that 
turned out to be a baby. 

Upon perceiving us she gave no evi- 
dence of the enthusiastic delight with 
which I had expected to be received by 
one of Mrs. Rushabout's "dear, dear 
friends." 

"Oh, how-dy-do, Mrs. Rushabout — 
Hey! — can't-you-brats-quit-that-infernal- 
racket?" she exclaimed in one breath, and 



[ 185 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

it was only upon entering the house that 
I realized the epithet "brat" had not been 
addressed to ourselves. 

The room that was kitchen, laundry, 
parlor, hall, and everything-but-bedroom 
combined, fairly seethed with children; 
children on the table and under it, chil- 
dren draped over chairs, children stuffed 
under the stove, children pressed in every 
gap and plastered onto every window — 
children who sneezed, hiccoughed, quar- 
reled, giggled, coughed, ate, shrieked, 
sniffed and gurgled ; while over and about 
them and us hung a distinct and individual 
odor not to be found among any of the 
varieties of 4711 to the use of which Mrs. 
Rushabout is addicted. 

"Sit down, loidies," said Mrs. Mulli- 
gan, waving vaguely over the pandemo- 
nium — but we considered it wiser to re- 
main standing, there being no empty 
chairs or tables visible and the stove giv- 

[ 186 ] 



VISIT SLUMS 



ing forth every indication of extreme 
heat. 

When at last some of the human in- 
cumbrance had been shoved from the 
furniture we sank upon two rickety stools 
opposite Mrs. Mulligan and the baby. 

"Your youngest?" asked Mrs. Rush- 
about sweetly. 

The baby was very evidently not a day 
over three months old. Mrs. Mulligan 
bristled. 

"Sure, an' it's me youngest; an' did ye 
think I wuz fer breakin' the laws o' na- 
ture? An' Mr. Mulligan dead he is these 
last three month ! Died, he did, on a wash- 
day — as I might a knowed as he would!" 

Mrs. Rushabout expressed heartfelt 
sympathy. 

"Oh, ye needn't be a-cheerin' me up. It 
ain't a great loss to no one, and I ain't one 
as says it is, once he's dead an' 
gone ; whin the while he lived I was bidin' 



[ 187 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

the day. No, I ain't one o' these snicker- 
in', double-tongued sneaks that be sayin' 
continually what they don't mean — I 
ain't that, Mrs. Rushabout — an' — " 

"Of course not," said Mrs. Rushabout, 
"of course you ain't — aren't." 

"I'm an honest woman," went on Mrs. 
Mulligan, beginning to weep, "an honest 
woman, Mrs. Rushabout, what ain't no 
liar nor no sneak even if you do say — " 

"Oh, my dear — but I didn't say any- 
thing!" cried Mrs. Rushabout in dis- 
may. 

At that moment the baby raised a dis- 
tracted howl and there came a truly ter- 
rifying banging upon the door, together 
with the voices of men clamoring to open. 

In her alarm Mrs. Rushabout dropped 
her satchel; and the pearl necklace, the 
platinumed pins, and five diamond rings 
rolling wildly in all directions were at 
once the immediate object of a scramble 

[ 188] 



VISIT SLUMS 



by pushing, tumbling, shrieking mobs of 
gleeful infants. 

After a struggle the jewels were ex- 
tracted from small, desperately clenched 
fists. The door was opened. 

There stood Mrs. Rushabout's Hugo, 
and the entire Police Force of Phila- 
delphia with clubs and hatchets. 

Mrs. Rushabout was very upset. So, 
evidently, was Mrs. Mulligan, who had 
gone into hysterics back of the stove; so 
too was the baby, who indulged in a long, 
unintermittent yell; so, also, the children, 
who sneezed, coughed, hiccoughed, sniffed 
and gurgled but refrained from quarrel- 
ing, shrieking, eating, and giggling. 

"This is most unfortunate," stammered 
Mrs. Rushabout, ''most unfortunate, Mrs. 
Mulligan. No, Hugo, I am perfectly 
safe. Nothing is the matter — Yes — I 
forgot the time — Good gracious ! The 
woman is having a fit!" 

[ 189 ] 



THE INTELLECTUALS 

And she rushed to Mrs. Mulligan, who 
was rocking to and fro, sobbing, and 
wringing her hands in a distracted 
manner. 

"Has they come fer the rent? Tell 'em 
I'll pay — tomorrer — Tell 'em I ain't 
got no money but I got ten kids. Tell 
'em to take one of the kids. Oh, lordie 
me! oh, lordie me!" And she began to beat 
her breast with great vigor. 

"Hugo," said Mrs. Rushabout, "send 
one of those policemen for a doctor — or 
a druggist — anything will do — and 
bring the car immediately. 

"I shall have to leave. I am late for 
my engagement at the Ritz !" 



[ 190 ] 



EPILOGUE 

Farewell, now, Mrs. Rushabout! 
Go sip insipid tea! 
Farewell to Cram Itin and all 
That ''brilliant Coterie'' 

Of famed, fantastic, futile fools 
Who struggle (^lost in thought) 
Into a cold Eternity 
And vanish — as they ought! 




I 191 ] 



PLIMPTON •PEESS'NOEWOOD'M ASS- C'S'A 



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